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KNEBJVORTH   LIMITED    EDITION 


EUGENE   ARAM 


1  -v  - 


A    TALE 


BY 


EDWARD    BULWER    LYTTON 


(LORD    LYTTON) 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON 

ESTES    AND    LAURIAT 
1S91 


KNEBIVORTH   LIMITED   EDITION. 

Liiiiift'ii  to  One  Thousand  Copies. 

No,396 


TYPOGRAPHY,  ELECTROTYPING,  AND 
PRINTING  BY  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON, 
UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


EUGENE     ARAM 


TO   SIR   WALTER  SCOTT,  Bart., 


ETC.,   ETC. 


Sir,  —  It  has  long  been  my  ambition  to  add  some  humble  tribute  to  the 
offerings  laid  upon  the  shrine  of  your  genius.  At  each  succeeding  book  that 
I  have  given  to  the  worhi,  I  have  paused  to  consider  if  it  vi^ere  worthy  to  be 
inscribed  witli  your  great  name,  and  at  each  I  have  played  the  procrastinator, 
and  hoped  for  that  morrow  of  better  desert  which  never  came.  But  dejiuat 
amnis, — the  time  runs  on  ;  and  I  am  tired  of  waiting  for  the  ford  which  the 
tides  refuse.  I  seize,  then,  the  present  opportunity,  not  as  the  best,  but  as 
the  only  one  I  can  be  sure  of  commanding,  to  express  that  affectionate  admir- 
ation with  which  you  have  inspired  me  in  common  with  all  your  contempo- 
raries, and  which  a  French  writer  has  not  ungracefully  termed  "  the  happiest 
prerogative  of  genius."  As  a  Poet  and  as  a  Novelist  your  fame  has  attained 
to  that  height  in  which  praise  has  become  superfluous ;  but  in  the  character 
of  the  writer  there  seems  to  me  a  yet  higher  claim  to  veneration  than  in  that 
of  the  writings.  The  example  your  genius  sets  us,  who  can  emulate  "?  The 
example  your  moderation  bequeaths  to  us,  who  shall  forget  ?  That  nature 
must  indeed  be  gentle  which  has  conciliated  the  envy  that  pursues  intellect- 
ual greatness,  and  left  without  an  enemy  a  man  who  has  no  living  equal  in 
renown. 

You  have  gone  for  a  while  from  the  scenes  you  have  immortalized,  to  re- 
gain, we  trust,  the  health  which  has  been  impaired  by  your  noble  labors  or 
by  the  manly  struggles  with  adverse  fortunes  which  have  not  found  the 
frame  as  indomitable  as  the  mind.  Take  with  you  the  prayers  of  all  whom 
your  genius,  with  playful  art,  has  soothed  in  sickness,  or  has  strengthened, 
with  generous  precepts,  against  the  calamities  of  life.^ 

"  Navis  qu£e  tibi  creditum 
Debes  Virtjilium  .  .  . 
Reddas  incolumem  ! "  2 

1  Written  at  the  time  of  Sir  W.  Scott's  visit  to  Italy,  after  the  great  blow  to  his 
health  and  fortunes. 

2  "  0  ship,  thou  owest  to  us  Virgil !  Restore  in  safety  him  whom  we  intrusted  to 
thee." 


vi  DEDICATION. 

You,  I  feel  assured,  will  not  deem  it  presumptuous  in  one  who,  to  that 
bright  and  undying  flame  which  now  streams  from  the  gray  hills  of  Scotland, 
—  the  last  halo  with  which  you  have  crowned  her  literary  glories,  —  has 
turned  from  his  first  childhood  with  a  deep  and  uurelaxing  devotion  ;  you,  1 
feel  assured,  will  not  deem  it  presumptuous  in  him  to  inscribe  an  idle  work 
with  your  illustrious  name,  —  a  work  which,  however  worthless  in  itself, 
assumes  something  of  value  in  his  eyes  when  thus  rendered  a  tribute  of 
respect  to  you. 

The  Author  of  "  Eugene  Aram." 

London,  December  22,  1831. 


PREFACE 
TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1831. 


Since,  dear  Reader,  I  last  addressed  thee,  in  "  Paul  Clif- 
ford," nearly  two  years  have  elapsed,  and  somewhat  more 
than  four  years  since,  in  "  Pelham,"  our  familiarity  first  be- 
gan. The  Tale  which  I  now  submit  to  thee  differs  equally 
from  the  last  as  from  the  first  of  those  works ;  for  of  the  two 
evils,  perhaps  it  is  even  better  to  disappoint  thee  in  a  new 
style  than  to  weary  thee  with  an  old.  With  the  facts  on 
which  the  tale  of  "  Eugene  Aram  "  is  founded,  I  have  ex- 
ercised the  common  and  fair  license  of  writers  of  fiction : 
it  is  chiefly  the  more  homely  parts  of  the  real  story  that 
have  been  altered ;  and  for  what  I  have  added,  and  what 
omitted,  I  have  the  sanction  of  all  established  authorities, 
who  have  taken  greater  liberties  with  characters  yet  more 
recent,  and  far  more  protected  by  historical  recollections. 
The  book  was,  for  tlie  most  part,  written  in  the  early  part 
of  the  year,  when  the  interest  which  the  task  created  in 
the  Author  was  undivided  by  other  subjects  of  excitement, 
and  he  had  leisure  enough  not  only  to  be  nescio  quid 
meditans  nugarum,  but  also  to  be  fotus  in  illis.^ 

I  originally  intended  to  adapt  the  story  of  Eugene  Aram 
to  the  Stage.  That  design  was  abandoned  when  more  than 
half  completed  ;  but  I  wished  to  impart  to  this  Romance 
something  of  the  nature  of  Tragedy,  —  something  of  the 

1  "  Not  only  to  be  meditating  I  know  not  what  of  trifles,  but  also  to  be 
wholly  engaged  on  them." 


vui  PREFACE. 

more  transferable  of  its  qualities.  Enough  of  this :  it  is 
not  the  Author's  wishes,  but  the  Author's  books  that  the 
world  will  judge  him  by.  Perhaps,  then  (with  this  I  con- 
clude), in  the  dull  monotony  of  public  affairs,  and  in  these 
long  winter  evenings,  when  we  gather  round  the  fire,  pre- 
pared for  the  gossip's  tale,  willing  to  indulge  the  fear  and 
to  believe  the  legend,  perhaps,  dear  Reader,  thou  may  est 
turn,  not  reluctantly,  even  to  these  pages,  for  at  least  a 
newer  excitement  than  the  Cholera,  or  for  momentary 
relief  from  the  everlasting  discussion  on  "  the  Bill."  ^ 

London,  December  22,  1831. 

1  The  year  of  the  Reform  Bill. 


PREFACE 
TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1840. 


The  strange  history  of  Eugene  Aram  had  excited  my 
interest  and  wonder  long  before  the  present  work  was  com- 
posed or  conceived.  It  so  happened  that  during  Aram's 
residence  at  Lynn  his  reputation  for  learning  liad  attracted 
the  notice  of  my  grandfather,  —  a  country  gentleman  living 
in  the  same  county,  and  of  more  intelligence  and  accom- 
plishments than,  at  that  day,  usually  characterized  his  class. 
Aram  frequently  visited  at  Heydon  (my  grandfather's 
house),  and  gave  lessons — probably  in  no  very  elevated 
branches  of  erudition  —  to  the  younger  members  of  the 
family.  This  I  chanced  to  hear  when  I  was  on  a  visit  in 
Norfolk  some  two  years  before  this  novel  was  published  ; 
and  it  tended  to  increase  the  interest  with  which  I  had 
previously  speculated  on  the  phenomena  of  a  trial  which, 
take  it  altogether,  is  perhaps  the  most  remarkable  in  the 
register  of  English  crime.  I  endeavored  to  collect  such 
anecdotes  of  Aram's  life  and  manners  as  tradition  and 
hearsay  still  kept  afloat.  These  anecdotes  were  so  far  uni- 
form that  they  all  concurred  in  representing  him  as  a  per- 
son who,  till  the  detection  of  the  crime  for  which  he  was 
sentenced,  had  appeared  of  the  mildest  character  and  the 
most  unexceptionable  morals.  An  invariable  gentleness 
and  patience  in  his  mode  of  tuition  —  qualities  then  very 
uncommon  at  school  —  had  made  him  so  beloved  by  his 
pupils  at  Lynn  that,  in  after  life,  there  was  scarcely  one  of 
them  who  did  not  persist  in  the  belief  of  his  innocence. 


X  PREFACE. 

His  personal  and  moral  peculiarities,  as  described  in  these 
pages,  are  such  as  were  related  to  me  by  persons  who  had 
heard  him  described  by  his  contemporaries,  —  the  calm, 
benign  countenance ;  the  delicate  health  ;  the  thoughtful 
stoop  ;  the  noiseless  step  ;  the  custom,  not  uncommon  with 
scholars  and  absent  men,  of  muttering  to  himself ;  a  sin- 
gular eloquence  in  conversation,  when  once  roused  from 
silence ;  an  active  tenderness  and  charity  to  the  poor,  with 
whom  he  was  always  ready  to  share  his  own  scanty  means  ; 
an  apparent  disregard  for  money,  except  when  employed 
in  the  purchase  of  books ;  an  utter  indifference  to  the 
ambition  usually  accompanying  self-taught  talent,  whether 
to  better  the  condition  or  to  increase  the  repute :  these, 
and  other  traits  of  the  character  portrayed  in  the  novel, 
are,  as  far  as  I  can  rely  on  my  information,  faithful  to  the 
features  of  the  original. 

That  a  man  thus  described  —  so  benevolent  that  he 
would  rob  his  own  necessities  to  administer  to  those  of 
another,  so  humane  that  he  would  turn  aside  from  the 
worm  in  his  path — should  have  been  guilty  of  the  foulest 
of  human  crimes,  namely,  murder  for  the  sake  of  gain ; 
that  a  crime  thus  committed  should  have  been  so  episodi- 
cal and  apart  from  the  rest  of  his  career  that,  however 
it  might  rankle  in  his  conscience,  it  should  never  have 
hardened  his  nature  ;  that  through  a  life  of  some  dura- 
tion, none  of  the  errors,  none  of  the  vices,  which  would 
seem  essentially  to  belong  to  a  character  capable  of  a 
deed  so  black,  from  motives  apparently  so  sordid,^  should 
have  been  discovered  or  suspected,  —  all  this  presents  an 
anomaly  in  human  conduct  so  rare  and  surprising  that  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find  any  subject  more  adapted  for  that 

*  For  I  put  wholly  out  of  question  the  excuse  of  jealousy,  as  unsupported 
by  any  evidence,  never  hinted  at  by  Aram  himself  (at  least  on  any  sufficient 
authority),  and  at  variance  with  the  only  fact  which  the  trial  establishes; 
namely,  that  the  robbery  was  the  crime  planned,  and  the  cause,  whether  acci- 
dental or  otherwise,  of   the  murder. 


PREFACE.  XI 

metaphysical  speculation  and  analysis,  in  order  to  indulge 
which,  Fiction,  whether  in  the  drama  or  the  higher  class  of 
romance,  seeks  its  materials  and  grounds  its  lessons  in  the 
chronicles  of  passion  and  crime. 

The  guilt  of  Eugene  Aram  is  not  that  of  a  vulgar  ruffian ; 
it  leads  to  views  and  considerations  vitally  and  wholly  dis- 
tinct from  those  with  which  profligate  knavery  and  brutal 
cruelty  revolt  and  displease  us  in  the  literature  of  Newgate 
and  the  hulks.  His  crime  does,  in  fact,  belong  to  those 
startling  paradoxes  which  the  poetry  of  all  countries,  and 
especially  of  our  own,  has  always  delighted  to  contem- 
plate and  examine.  Whenever  crime  appears  the  aberra- 
tion and  monstrous  product  of  a  great  intellect  or  of  a 
nature  ordinarily  virtuous,  it  becomes  not  only  the  subject 
for  genius,  which  deals  with  passions,  to  describe,  but  a 
problem  for  philosophy,  which  deals  with  actions,  to  in- 
vestigate and  solve  ;  hence  the  Macbeths  and  Richards, 
the  lagos  and  Othellos.  My  regret,  therefore,  is  not  that 
1  chose  a  subject  unworthy  of  elevated  fiction,  but  that 
such  a  subject  did  not  occur  to  some  one  capable  of  treat- 
ing it  as  it  deserves ;  and  I  never  felt  this  more  strongly 
than  when  the  late  Mr.  Godwin  (in  conversing  with  me 
after  the  publication  of  this  romance)  observed  that  he 
had  always  thought  the  story  of  Eugene  Aram  peculiarly 
adapted  for  fiction,  and  that  he  had  more  than  once  enter- 
tained the  notion  of  making  it  the  foundation  of  a  novel.  I 
can  well  conceive  what  depth  and  power  that  gloomy  record 
would  have  taken  from  the  dark  and  inquiring  genius  of 
the  author  of  "  Caleb  Williams."  In  fact,  the  crime  and 
trial  of  Eugene  Aram  arrested  the  attention  and  engaged 
the  conjectures  of  many  of  the  most  eminent  men  of 
his  own  time.  His  guilt  or  innocence  was  the  matter  of 
strong  contest ;  and  so  keen  and  so  enduring  was  the  sen- 
sation created  by  an  event  thus  completely  distinct  from 
the    ordinary  annals  of   human  crime  that  even   History 


lii  PREFACE. 

turned  aside  from  the  sonorous  narrative  of  the  struggles 
of  parties  and  the  feuds  of  kings  to  commemorate  the 
learning  and  the  guilt  of  the  humble  schoolmaster  of  Lynn. 
Did  I  want  any  other  answer  to  the  animadversions  of 
commonplace  criticism,  it  might  be  sufficient  to  say  that 
what  the  historian  relates  the  novelist  has  little  right  to 
disdain. 

Before  entering  on  this  romance,  I  examined  with  some 
care  the  probabilities  of  Aram's  guilt ;  for  I  need  scarcely 
perhaps  observe  that  the  legal  evidence  against  him  is 
extremely  deficient,  —  furnished  almost  entirely  by  one 
(Houseman)  confessedly  an  accomplice  of  the  crime  and  a 
partner  in  the  booty,  and  that  in  the  present  day  a  man 
tried  upon  evidence  so  scanty  and  suspicious  would  un- 
questionably escape  conviction.  Nevertheless,  I  must 
frankly  own  tlmt  the  moral  evidence  appeared  to  me  more 
convincing  than  the  legal ;  and  though  not  without  some 
doubt,  which,  in  common  with  many,  I  still  entertain  of 
the  real  facts  of  the  murder ,i  I  adopted  that  view  which,  at 
all  events,  was  the  best  suited  to  the  higher  purposes  of 
fiction.  On  the  whole,  I  still  think  that  if  the  crime  were 
committed  by  Aram,  the  motive  was  not  very  far  removed 
from  one  which  led  recently  to  a  remarkable  murder  in 
Spain.  A  priest  in  that  country,  wholly  absorbed  in 
learned  pursuits,  and  apparently  of  spotless  life,  confessed 
that,  being  debarred  by  extreme  poverty  from  prosecuting 
a  study  which  had  become  the  sole  passion  of  his  existence, 
he  had  reasoned  himself  into  the  belief  that  it  would  be 
admissible  to  rob  a  very  dissolute,  worthless  man  if  he 
applied  the  money  so  obtained  to  the  acquisition  of  a  know- 
ledge which  he  could  not  otherwise  acquire,  and  which  he 
held  to  be  profitable  to  mankind.  Unfortunately,  the  dis- 
solute rich  man  was  not  willing  to  be  robbed  for  so  excel- 
lent a  purpose  ;  he  was  armed  and  he  resisted.     A  struggle 

1  See  Preface  to  the  Present  Edition,  pp.  xvii,  xviii. 


PREFACE.  xiii 

ensued,  and  the  crime  of  homicide  was  added  to  that  of 
robbery.  The  robbery  was  premeditated ;  the  murder  was 
accidental.  But  he  who  would  accept  some  similar  inter- 
pretation of  Aram's  crime  must,  to  comprehend  fully  the 
lessons  which  belong  to  so  terrible  a  picture  of  frenzy  and 
guilt,  consider  also  the  physical  circumstances  and  con- 
dition of  the  criminal  at  the  time,  —  severe  illness,  intense 
labor  of  the  brain,  poverty  bordering  upon  famine,  the 
mind  preternaturally  at  work  devising  schemes  and  ex- 
cuses to  arrive  at  the  means  for  ends  ardently  desired. 
And  all  this  duly  considered,  the  reader  may  see  the  crime 
bodying  itself  out  from  the  shades  and  chimeras  of  a  hor- 
rible hallucination,  —  the  awful  dream  of  a  brief  but  de- 
lirious and  convulsed  disease.  It  is  thus  only  that  we 
can  account  for  the  contradiction  of  one  deed  at  war  with 
a  whole  life,  —  blasting,  indeed,  forever  the  happiness,  but 
making  little  revolution  in  the  pursuits  and  disposition  of 
the  character.  No  one  who  has  examined  with  care  and 
thoughtfulness  the  aspects  of  Life  and  Nature  but  must 
allow  that  in  the  contemplation  of  such  a  spectacle,  great 
and  most  moral  truths  must  force  themselves  on  the 
notice  and  sink  deep  into  the  heart.  The  entanglements 
of  human  reasoning ;  the  influence  of  circumstance  upon 
deeds ;  the  perversion  that  may  be  made,  by  one  self- 
palter  with  the  Fiend,  of  elements  the  most  glorious ;  the 
secret  effect  of  conscience  in  frustrating  all  for  which  the 
crime  was  done,  leaving  genius  without  hope,  knowledge 
without  fruit,  deadening  benevolence  into  mechanism,  taint- 
ing love  itself  with  terror  and  suspicion,  —  such  reflections 
(leading,  with  subtler  minds,  to  many  more  vast  and  com- 
plicated theorems  in  the  consideration  of  our  nature,  social 
and  individual)  arise  out  of  the  tragic  moral  which  the 
story  of  Eugene  Aram  (were  it  but  adequately  treated) 
could  not  fail  to  convey. 

Brussels,  August,  1840. 


PEEFACE 

TO   THE   PRESENT   EDITION. 


If  none  of  my  prose  works  have  been  so  attacked  as 
"  Eugene  Aram,"  none  have  so  completely  triumphed  over 
attack.  It  is  true  that,  whether  from  real  or  affected  ig- 
norance of  the  true  morality  of  fiction,  a  few  critics  may 
still  reiterate  the  old  commonplace  charges  of  "  selecting 
heroes  from  Newgate,"  or  "  investing  murderers  with  in- 
terest ;  "  but  the  firm  hold  which  the  work  has  established 
in  the  opinion  of  the  general  public,  and  the  favor  it 
has  received  in  every  country  where  English  literature  is 
known,  suffice  to  prove  that,  whatever  its  faults,  it  belongs 
to  that  legitimate  class  of  fiction  which  illustrates  life 
and  truth,  and  only  deals  with  crime  as  the  recognized 
agency  of  pity  and  terror  in  the  conduct  of  tragic  narrative. 
All  that  I  would  say  further  on  this  score  has  been  said  in 
the  general  defence  of  my  writings  which  I  put  forth  two 
years  ago  ;  and  I  ask  the  indulgence  of  the  reader  if  I 
repeat  myself  -.  — 

"  Here,  unlike  the  milder  guilt  of  Paul  Clifford,  the  author 
was  not  to  imply  reform  to  society,  nor  open  in  this  world 
atonement  and  pardon  to  the  criminal.  As  it  would  have 
been  wholly  in  vain  to  disguise,  by  mean  tamperings  with  art 
and  truth,  the  ordinary  habits  of  life  and  attributes  of  charac- 
ter which  all  record  and  remembrance  ascribed  to  Eugene  Aram ; 
as  it  would  have  defeated  every  end  of  the  moral  incul- 
cated by  his  guilt,  to  portray,  in  the  caricature  of  the  mur- 
derer of  melodrama,  a  man  immersed  in  study,  of  whom  it 
was  noted  that  he  turned  aside  from  the  worm  in  his  path,  — 


XVI  PREFACE. 

so  I  have  allowed  to  him  whatever  contrasts  with  his  inexpi- 
able crime  have  been  recorded  on  sufficient  authority.  But  I 
have  invariably  taken  care  that  the  crime  itself  should  stand 
stripped  of  every  sophistry,  and  hideous  to  the  perpetrator  as 
well  as  to  the  world.  Allowing  all  by  which  attention  to  his 
biography  may  explain  the  tremendous  paradox  of  fearful 
guilt  in  a  man  aspiring  after  knowledge,  and  not  generally  in- 
humane ;  allowing  that  the  crime  came  upon  him  in  the  partial 
insanity  produced  by  the  combining  circumstances  of  a  brain 
overwrought  by  intense  study,  disturbed  by  an  excited  imagi- 
nation and  the  fumes  of  a  momentary  disease  of  the  reasoning 
faculty,  consumed  by  the  desire  of  knowledge,  unwholesome 
and  morbid,  because  coveted  as  an  end,  not  a  means,  added  to 
the  other  physical  causes  of  mental  aberration  to  be  found  in 
loneliness,  and  want  verging  upon  famine,  —  all  these,  which 
a  biographer  may  suppose  to  have  conspired  to  his  crime, 
have  never  been  used  by  the  novelist  as  excuses  for  its  enor- 
mity, nor  indeed,  lest  they  should  seem  as  excuses,  have  they 
ever  been  clearly  presented  to  the  view.  The  moral  consisted 
in  showing  more  than  the  mere  legal  punishment  at  the  close. 
It  was  to  show  how  the  consciousness  of  the  deed  was  to  ex- 
clude whatever  humanity  of  character  preceded  and  belied  it 
from  all  active  exercise,  all  social  confidence ;  how  the  know- 
ledge of  the  bar  between  the  nunds  of  others  and  his  own 
deprived  the  criminal  of  all  motive  to  ambition,  and  blighted 
knowledge  of  all  fruit.  Miserable  in  his  affections,  barren  in 
his  intellect ;  clinging  to  solitude,  yet  accursed  in  it ;  dread- 
ing as  a  danger  the  fame  he  had  once  coveted;  obscure  in 
spite  of  learning,  hopeless  in  spite  of  love,  fruitless  and  joy- 
less in  his  life,  calamitous  and  shameful  in  his  end,  —  surely 
such  is  no  palliative  of  crime,  no  dalliance  and  toying  with 
the  grimness  of  evil !  And  surely  to  any  ordinary  compre- 
hension and  candid  mind  such  is  the  moral  conveyed  by  the 
fiction  of  'Eugene  Aram.'"^ 

In  point   of  composition   "  Eugene  Aram "  is,  I  think, 
entitled  to  rank  amongst  the  best  of  my  fictions.     It  some- 

1  A  Word  to  the  Public,  1847. 


PREFACE.  xvii 

what  humiliates  me  to  acknowledge  that  neither  practice 
nor  study  has  enabled  me  to  surpass  a  work  written  at  a 
very  early  age,  in  the  skilful  construction  and  patient 
development  of  plot ;  and  though  1  have  since  sought  to 
call  forth  higher  and  more  subtle  passions,  I  doubt  if  I 
have  ever  excited  the  two  elementary  passions  of  tragedy, 
—  namely,  pity  and  terror, — to  the  same  degree.  In  mere 
style,  too,  "  Eugene  Aram,"  in  spite  of  certain  verbal  over- 
sights, and  defects  in  youthful  taste  (some  of  which  I  have 
endeavored  to  remove  from  the  present  edition),  appears 
to  me  unexcelled  by  any  of  my  later  writings,  —  at  least  in 
what  I  have  always  studied  as  the  main  essential  of  style 
in  narrative ;  namely,  its  harmony  with  the  subject  selected 
and  the  passions  to  be  moved,  —  while  it  exceeds  them  all 
in  the  minuteness  and  fidelity  of  its  descriptions  of  external 
nature.  This  indeed  it  ought  to  do,  since  the  study  of 
external  nature  is  made  a  peculiar  attribute  of  the  prin- 
cipal character,  whose  fate  colors  the  narrative.  I  do  not 
know  whether  it  has  been  observed  that  the  time  occupied 
by  the  events  of  the  story  is  conveyed  through  the  medium 
of  such  descriptions.  Each  description  is  introduced,  not 
for  its  own  sake,  but  to  serve  as  a  calendar  marking  the 
gradual  changes  of  the  seasons  as  they  bear  on  to  his  doom 
the  guilty  worshipper  of  Nature.  And  in  this  conception, 
and  in  the  care  with  which  it  has  been  followed  out,  1 
recognize  one  of  my  earliest  but  most  successful  attempts 
at  the  subtler  principles  of  narrative  art. 

In  this  edition  I  have  made  one  alteration  somewhat 
more  important  than  mere  verbal  correction.  On  going, 
with  maturer  judgment,  over  all  the  evidences  on  which 
Aram  was  condemned,  I  have  convinced  myself  that 
though  an  accomplice  in  the  robbery  of  Clarke,  he  was 
free  both  from  the  premeditated  design  and  the  actual 
deed  of  murder.  The  crime,  indeed,  would  still  rest  on 
his  conscience  and  insure  his  punishment,  as  necessarily 

b 


xviii  PREFACE. 

incidental  to  the  robbery  in  which  he  was  an  accomplice, 
with  Houseman  ;  but  finding  my  convictions,  that  in  the 
murder  itself  he  had  no  share,  borne  out  by  the  opinion  of 
many  eminent  lawyers  by  whom  I  have  heard  the  subject 
discussed,  I  have  accordingly  so  shaped  his  confession  to 
Walter. 

Perhaps  it  will  not  be  without  interest  to  the  reader  if 
I  append  to  this  preface  an  authentic  specimen  of  Eugene 
Aram's  composition,  for  which  I  am  indebted  to  the  cour- 
tesy of  a  gentleman  by  whose  grandfather  it  was  received, 
with  other  papers  (especially  a  remarkable  "  Outline  of  a 
New  Lexicon  "),  during  Ai'am's  confinement  in  York  prison. 
The  essay  I  select  is,  indeed,  not  without  value  in  itself  as 
a  very  curious  and  learned  illustration  of  Popular  Antiqui- 
ties, and  it  serves  also  to  show  not  only  the  comprehensive 
nature  of  Aram's  studies  and  the  inquisitive  eagerness  of 
his  mind,  but  also  the  fact  that  he  was  completely  self- 
taught  ;  for  in  contrast  to  much  philological  erudition, 
and  to  passages  that  evince  considerable  mastery  in  the 
higher  resources  of  language,  we  may  occasionally  notice 
those  lesser  inaccuracies  from  which  the  writings  of  men 
solely  self-educated  are  rarely  free,  —  indeed  Aram  him- 
self, in  sending  to  a  gentleman  an  elegy  on  Sir  John  Ar- 
mitage,  which  shows  much,  but  undisci})lined,  power  of 
versification,  says,  "  I  send  this  elegy,  which,  indeed,  if 
you  had  not  had  the  curiosity  to  desire,  I  could  not  have 
had  the  assurance  to  offer,  scarce  believing  I,  who  was 
hardly  taught  to  read,  have  any  abilities  to  write." 

THE   MELSUPPER   AND   SHOUTING   THE   CHUEN. 

These  rural  entertainments  and  usages  were  formerly  more 
general  all  over  England  than  they  are  at  present,  being  be- 
come by  time,  necessity,  or  avarice,  complex,  confined,  and 
altered.  They  are  commonly  insisted  upon  by  the  reapers  as 
customary  things,  and  a  part  of  their  due  for  the  toils  of  the 


PREFACE.  XIX 

harvest,  and  complied  with  by  their  masters  perhaps  more 
through  regards  of  interest  than  inclination ;  for  should  they 
refuse  them  the  pleasures  of  this  much-expected  time,  this  fes- 
tal night,  the  youth  especially,  of  both  sexes  would  decline 
serving  them  for  the  future,  and  employ  their  labors  for  others, 
who  would  promise  them  the  rustic  joys  of  the  harvest-supper, 
mirth  and  music,  dance  and  song.  These  feasts  appear  to  be 
the  relics  of  Pagan  ceremonies  or  of  Judaism,  it  is  hard  to  say 
which,  and  carry  in  them  more  meaning  and  are  of  far  higher 
antiquity  than  is  generally  apprehended.  It  is  true  the  sub- 
ject is  more  curious  than  important,  and  I  believe  altogether 
untouched ;  and  as  it  seems  to  be  little  understood,  has  been  as 
little  adverted  to.  I  do  not  remember  it  to  have  been  so  much 
as  the  subject  of  a  conversation.  Let  us  make,  then,  a  little 
excursion  into  this  field,  for  the  same  reason  men  sometimes 
take  a  walk.  Its  traces  are  discoverable  at  a  very  great  distance 
of  time  from  ours,  — nay,  seem  as  old  as  a  sense  of  joy  for  the 
benefit  of  plentiful  harvests  and  human  gratitude  to  the  eternal 
Creator  for  His  munificence  to  men.  We  hear  it  under  various 
names  in  different  counties,  and  often  in  the  same  county ;  as, 
"  melsupper,"  ''  churn-supper,"  "  harvest-supper,"  "  harvest- 
home,"  "  feast  of  in-gathering,"  etc.  And  perhaps  this  feast 
had  been  long  observed,  and  by  different  tribes  of  people,  be- 
fore it  became  preceptive  with  the  Jews.  However,  let  that 
be  as  it  will,  the  custom  very  lucidly  appears  from  the  follow- 
ing passages  of  S.  S.,  Exod.  xxiii.  16,  "  And  the  feast  of  har- 
vest, the  first-fruits  of  thy  labors,  which  thou  hast  sown  in  the 
field."  And  its  institution  as  a  sacred  rite  is  commanded  in 
Levit.  xxiii.  39  :  "  When  ye  have  gathered  in  the  fruit  of  the 
land  ye  shall  keep  a  feast  to  the  Lord." 

The  Jews  then,  as  is  evident  from  hence,  celebrated  the  feast 
of  harvest,  and  that  by  precept ;  and  though  no  vestiges  of  any 
such  feast  either  are  or  can  be  produced  before  these,  yet  the 
oblation  of  the  Primitiae,  of  which  this  feast  was  a  conse- 
quence, is  met  with  prior  to  this,  for  we  find  that  "  Cain 
brought  of  the  fruit  of  the  ground  an  offering  to  the  Lord " 
(Gen.  iv.  3). 

Yet  this  offering  of  the  first-fruits,  it  may  well  be  supposed, 


XX  PREFACE. 

was  not  peculiar  to  the  Jews  either  at  the  time  of,  or  after,  its 
establishment  by  their  legislator ;  neither  the  feast  in  conse- 
quence of  it.  Many  other  nations,  either  in  imitation  of  the 
Jews,  or  rather  by  tradition  from  their  several  patriarchs, 
observed  the  rite  of  offering  their  Primitiae,  and  of  solemn- 
izing a  festival  after  it,  in  religious  acknowledgment  for  the 
blessing  of  harvest,  though  that  acknowledgment  was  igno- 
rantly  misapplied  in  being  directed  to  a  secondary,  not  the 
primary,  fountain  of  this  benefit,  —  namely  to  Apollo,  or  the 
Sun. 

For  Callimachus  affirms  that  these  Primitise  were  sent  by 
the  people  of  every  nation  to  the  temple  of  Apollo  in  Delos,  the 
most  distant  that  enjoyed  the  happiness  of  corn  and  harvest, 
even  by  the  Hyperboreans  in  particular,  —  Hymn  to  ApoL,  01 
liivTOL  KaXdfXTjv  re  Kal  Upa  Spdyfjiu  irpihroi  dcrrap^ucuF,  "  Bring  the 
sacred  sheafs  and  the  mystic  offerings." 

Herodotus  also  mentions  this  annual  custom  of  the  Hyperbo- 
reans, remarking  that  those  of  Delos  talk  of  'Upd  ivScSep-eva  iv 
KaXdfjir)  TTvpCjv  e^  'Yirepf^opaov,  "  Holy  things  tied  up  in  sheaf  of 
wheat  conveyed  from  the  Hyperboreans."  And  the  Jews,  by 
the  command  of  their  law,  offered  also  a  sheaf :  "  And  shall 
reap  the  harvest  thereof,  then  ye  shall  bring  a  sheaf  of  the 
first-fruits  of  the  harvest  unto  the  priest." 

This  is  not  introduced  in  proof  of  any  feast  observed  by 
the  people  who  had  harvests,  but  to  show  the  universality  of 
the  custom  of  offering  the  Primitise,  which  preceded  this  feast. 
But  yet  it  may  be  looked  upon  as  equivalent  to  a  proof ;  for 
as  the  offering  and  the  feast  appear  to  have  been  always  and 
intimately  connected  in  countries  affording  records,  so  it  is 
more  than  probable  they  were  connected  too  in  countries 
which  had  none,  or  none  that  ever  survived  to  our  times.  An 
entertainment  and  gayety  were  still  the  concomitants  of  these 
rites,  which  with  the  vulgar,  one  may  pretty  truly  suppose, 
were  esteemed  the  most  acceptable  and  material  part  of  them, 
and  a  great  reason  of  their  having  subsisted  through  such  a 
length  of  ages,  when  both  the  populace  and  many  of  the 
learned  too  have  lost  sight  of  the  object  to  which  they  had 
been  originally  directed.     This,  among  many  other  ceremonies 


PREFACE.  xxi 

of  the  heathen  worship,  became  disused  in  some  places  and  re- 
tained in  otiiers,  but  still  continued  declining  after  the  promul- 
gation of  the  Gospel.  In  short,  there  seems  great  reason  to 
conclude  that  this  feast,  which  was  once  sacred  to  Apollo,  was 
constantly  maintained,  when  a  far  less  valuable  circumstance, 
—  i.  e.,  "  shouting  the  churn,"  —  is  observed  to  this  day  by  the 
reapers,  and  from  so  old  an  era  5  for  we  read  of  this  exclama- 
tion, Isa.  xvi.  9 :  "  For  the  shouting  for  thy  summer  fruits  and 
for  thy  harvest  is  fallen  ;  "  and  again,  ver.  10  :  "  And  in  the  vine- 
yards there  shall  be  no  singing,  their  shouting  shall  be  no  shout- 
ing." Hence  then,  or  from  some  of  the  Phoenician  colonies,  is 
our  traditionary  "  shouting  the  churn."  But  it  seems  these 
Orientals  shouted  both  for  joy  of  their  harvest  of  grapes  and  of 
corn.  We  have  no  quantity  of  the  first  to  occasion  so  much  joy 
as  does  our  plenty  of  the  last ;  and  I  do  not  remember  to  have 
heard  whether  their  vintages  abroad  are  attended  with  this  cus- 
tom. Bread  or  cakes  compose  part  of  the  Hebrew  offering 
(Levit.  xxiii.  13),  and  a  cake  thrown  upon  the  head  of  the  vic- 
tim was  also  part  of  the  Greek  offering  to  Apollo  (see  Horn., 
II.,  a),  whose  worship  was  formerly  celebrated  in  Britain,  where 
the  May-pole  yet  continues  one  remain  of  it.  This  they 
adorned  with  garlands  on  May-day,  to  welcome  the  approach  of 
Apollo,  or  the  Sun,  towards  the  North,  and  to  signify  that  those 
flowers  were  the  product  of  his  presence  and  influence.  But 
upon  the  progress  of  Christianity,  as  was  observed  above, 
Apollo  lost  his  divinity  again,  and  the  adoration  of  his  deity 
subsided  by  degrees.  Yet  so  permanent  is  custom  that  this 
rite  of  the  harvest-supper,  together  with  that  of  the  May-pole 
(of  which  last  see  Voss.  de  Orig.  and  Prag.  Idolatr.,  1,  2), 
have  been  preserved  in  Britain  ;  and  what  had  been  an- 
ciently offered  to  the  god,  the  reapers  as  prudently  ate  up 
themselves. 

At  last  the  use  of  the  meal  of  the  new  corn  was  neglected, 
and  the  supper,  so  far  as  meal  was  concerned,  was  made  indif- 
ferently of  old  or  new  corn,  as  was  most  agreeable  to  the 
founder.  And  here  the  usage  itself  accounts  for  the  name  of 
"■  ]\Ielsupper  "  (where  mel  signifies  meal,  or  else  the  instrument 
called  with  us  a  "  Mell, "  wherewith  antiquity  reduced  their 


xxii  PREFACE. 

corn  to  meal  in  a  mortar,  which  still  amounts  to  the  same 
thing) ;  for  provisions  of  meal,  or  of  corn  in  furmety,  etc.,  com- 
posed by  far  the  greatest  part  in  these  elder  and  country  en- 
tertainments, perfectly  conformable  to  the  simplicity  of  those 
times,  places,  and  persons,  however  meanly  they  may  now  be 
looked  upon.  And  as  the  harvest  was  last  concluded  with 
several  preparations  of  meal,  or  brought  to  be  ready  for  the 
"mell,"  this  term  became,  in  a  translated  signification,  to  mean 
the  last  of  otlier  things ;  as,  when  a  horse  comes  last  in  the 
race,  they  often  say  in  the  ISTorth,  "  He  has  got  the  mell." 

All  the  other  names  of  this  country  festivity  sufficiently  ex- 
plain themselves,  except  "  Churn-supper ; "  and  this  is  entirely 
different  from  "  Melsupper :  "  but  they  generally  happen  so 
near  together  that  they  are  frequently  confounded.  The 
"Churn-supper"  was  always  provided  when  all  was  shorn,  but 
the  "  Melsupper  "  after  all  was  got  in.  And  it  was  called  the 
"  Churn-supper  "  because,  from  immemorial  times,  it  was  cus- 
tomary to  produce  in  a  churn  a  great  quantity  of  cream,  and  to 
circulate  it  by  dishfuls  to  each  of  the  rustic  company,  to  be 
eaten  with  bread.  And  here  sometimes  very  extraordinary 
execution  has  been  done  upon  cream.  And  though  this  cus- 
tom has  been  disused  in  many  places,  and  agreeably  commuted 
for  by  ale,  yet  it  survives  still,  and  that  about  Whitby  and 
Scarborough  in  the  East,  and  round  about  Gisburn,  etc.,  in 
Craven,  in  the  West.  But  perhaps  a  century  or  two  more  will 
put  an  end  to  it,  and  both  the  thing  and  name  shall  die.  Vica- 
rious ale  is  now  more  approved,  and  the  tankard  almost  every- 
where politely  preferred  to  the  Churn. 

This  Churn  (in  our  provincial  pronunciation  Kern)  is  the 
Hebrew  Kern,  \'^p,  or  Keren,  from  its  being  circular,  like  most 
horns  ;  and  it  is  the  Latin  corona,  —  named  so  either  from 
radii,  resembling  horns,  as  on  some  very  ancient  coins,  or  from 
its  encircling  the  head :  so  a  ring  of  people  is  called  corona. 
Also  the  Celtic  Koren,  Keren,  or  corn,  which  continues  accord- 
ing to  its  old  pronunciation  in  Cornwall,  etc.,  and  our  modern 
word  horn  is  no  more  than  this  ;  the  ancient  hard  sound  of  k 
in  corn  being  softened  into  the  aspirate  h,  as  has  been  done 
in  numberless  instances. 


PREFACE.  xxiii 

The  Irish  Celtse  also  called  a  round  stone  clorjh  crene,  where 
the  variation  is  merely  dialectic.  Hence,  too,  our  crane-berries, 
—  i.e.,  round  berries,  —  from  this  Celtic  adjective  crene,  round. 

The  quotations  from  Scripture  in  Aram's  original  MS. 
were  both  in  the  Hebrew  character,  and  their  value  in 
English  sounds. 


CONTENTS. 


llBoob  I. 

CHAPTER    I. 

Page 
The  Village.  —  Its  Inhabitants.  —  An  Old  Manor-House  and  an  English 

Family ;  Their  History,  Involving  a  Mysterious  Event     ....         I 

CHAPTER    11. 
A  Publican,  a  Sinner,  and  a  Stranger 10 

CHAPTER    III. 
A  Dialogue  and  an  Alarm. —  A  Student's  House 21 

CHAPTER    IV. 

The  Soliloquy  and  the  Character  of  a  Recluse.  —  The  Interruption      .      31 

CHAPTER    V. 

A  Dinner  at  the  Squire's  Hall.  —  A  Conversation  between  Two  Re- 
tired Men  with  Different  Objects  in  Retirement.  —  Disturbance 
First  Introduced  into  a  Peaceful  Family     . , 38 

CHAPTER    VI. 
The  Behavior  of  the  Student.  —  A  Summer  Scene.  —  Aram's  Conver- 
sation with  Walter,  and  Subsequent  Colloquy  with  Himself    .     .       46 

CHAPTER    VII. 
The   Power  of   Love  over    the   Resolution   of    the   Student.  —  Aram 
Becomes   a  Frequent   Guest   at   the   Manor-House.  — A  Walk.— 
Conversation    with   Dame    Darkmans,  —  Her    History.  —  Poverty 
and  its  Effects       54 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

The    Privilege    of    Genius  — Lester's  Satisfaction    at   the   Aspect  of 

Events.  —  His   Conversation   with  Walter.  —  A  Discovery    ...       6« 


XXVI  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER    IX. 

rage 
The  State  of  Walter's  Mind.  —  An  Angler  and  a  Man  of  the  World. 

—  A  Companion  Found  for  Walter 72 

CHAPTER    X. 

The  Lovers.  —  The  Encounter  and  Quarrel  of  the  Rivals      ....      78 

CHAPTER   XI. 

The  Family  Supper.  —  The  Two  Sisters  in  their  Chamber.  —  A  Mis- 
understanding followed  by  a  Confession. — Walter's  Approach- 
ing Departure,  and  the  Corporal's  Behavior  thereon.  —  The 
Corporal's  Favorite  Introduced  to  the  Reader.  —  The  Corporal 
Proves  Himself  a  Subtle  Diplomatist 88 

CHAPTER    XII. 

A  Strange  Habit.  —  Walter's  Interview  with  Madeline.  —  Her  Generous 
and  Confiding  Disposition. — Walter's  Anger.  —  The  Parting 
Meal.  —  Conversation  between  the  Uncle  and  Nephew.  —  Walter 
Alone.  —  Sleep  the  Blessing  of  the  Young 104 


llBook  II. 

CHAPTER  I. 

The  Marriage  Settled.  —  Lester's  Hopes  and  Schemes.  —  Gayety  of 
Temper. —  A  Good  Speculation. — The  Truth  and  Fervor  of 
Aram's  Love 113 

CHAPTER    II. 
A  Favorable   Specimen  of  a  Nobleman   and  a  Courtier.  — A  Man  of 

Some  Faults  and  Many  Accomplishments 116 

CHAPTER    in. 

Wherein  the  Earl  and  the  Student  Converse  on  Grave  but  Delightful 

Matters.  —  The  Student's  Notion  of  the  only  Earthly  Happiness  .     121 

CHAPTER    IV. 
A  Deeper  Examination  into  the  Student's  Heart.  — The  Visit  to  the 

Castle.  — Philosophy  put  to  the  Trial 125 


CONTENTS.  xxvii 

CHAPTER    V. 

Page 
In  Which  the  Story  Returns  to  Walter  and  tlie  Corporal.  —  The  Ren- 
contre with  a  Stranger,  and  How  the  Stranger  i'roves  to  be  not 
Altogether  a  Stranger 137 

CHAPTER    VI. 

Sir  Peter  Displayed.  —  One  Man  of  the  World  Suffers  from  Another. 

—  The  Incident  of  the  Bridle  Begets  the  Incident  of  the  Sad- 
dle ;  the  Incident  of  the  Saddle  Begets  the  Incident  of  the  Whip ; 
the  Incident  of  the  Whip  Begets  What  the  Reader  must  Read  to 

See 147 

CHAPTER    VII. 

Walter  Visits  Another  of  His  Uncle's  Friends.  —  Mr.  Courtland's  Strange 
Complaint.  —  Walter  Learns  News  of  His  Father  which  Surprises 
Him.  —  The  Change  in  His  Destination 152 

CHxVPTER    VIII. 

Walter's  Meditations. — The  Corporal's  Grief  and  Anger.  —  The  Cor- 
poral Personally  Described.  —  An  Explanation   with    His   Master. 

—  The  Corporal  opens  Himself  to  the  Young  Traveller.  —  His 
Opinions  of  Love ;  on  the  World  ;  on  the  Pleasure  and  Respecta- 
bility of  Cheating ;  on  Ladies,  and  a  Particular  Class  of  Ladies ; 
on  Authors ;  on  the  Value  of  Words ;  on  Fighting :  with  Sundry 
other  Matters  of  Equal  Delectation  and  Improvement. — An 
Unexpected  Event 160 


llBoofe  III. 

CHAPTER   I. 

Fraud    and   Violence   Enter  even   Grassdale.  —  Peter's   News. — The 

Lovers'  Walk.  —  The  Reappearance 175 

CHAPTER   IL 
The  Interview  between  Aram  and  the  Stranger 181 

CHAPTER    IIL 

Fresh  Alarm  in  the  Village.  —  Lester's  Visit  to  Aram.  —  A  Trait  of 
Delicate  Kindness  in  the  Student.  —  Madeline. — Her  Proneness 
to  Confide.  — The  Conversation  between  Lester  and  Aram. — The 
Persons  by  Whom  it  is  Interrupted 190 


xxviii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER    IV. 

Page 

Military  Preparations.  —  The   Commander  and    His    Men.  —  Aram   is 

Persuaded  to  Pass  the  Night  at  the  Mauor-House 200 

CHAPTER   V. 

The  Sisters  Alone.  —  The  Gossip  of  Love.  —  An  Alarm  and  an  Event     20  i 

CHAPTER   VI. 

Aram  Alone  Among  the  Mountains.  —  His  Soliloquy  and  Project. — 

Scene  between  Himself  and  Madeline 212 

CHAPTER    VII. 

Aram's  Secret  Expedition.  —  A  Scene  Worthy  the  Actors.  —  Aram's 
Address  and  Powers  of  Persuasion  or  Hypocrisy.  —  Their  Result. 
—  A  Fearful  Kignt.  —  Aram's  Solitary  Ride  Homeward.  — 
"Whom  He  Meets  by  the  Way,  and  What  He  Sees 220 


Boofe  IV. 

CHAPTER  I. 

In  which  We  Return  to  Walter.  —  His  Debt  of  Gratitude  to  Mr.  Per- 
tinax  Fillgrave.  —  Tlie  Corporal's  Advice  and  the  Corporal's 
Victory 238 

CHAPTER    II. 

]Sew  Traces  of  the  Fate  of  Geoffrey  Lester.  —  Walter  and  the  Corporal 
Proceed  on  a  Fresh  Expedition. — The  Corporal  is  Especially 
Sagacious  on  the  Old  Topic  of  the  World.  —  His  Opinions  of  the 
Men  who  Claim  Knowledge  thereof ;  on  the  Advantages  Enjoyed 
by  a  Valet;  on  the  Science  of  Successful  Love;  on  Virtue  and 
the  Constitution ;    on  Qualities   to  be  Desired  in  a  Mistress,  etc. 

—  A  Landscape     .     .     .     • 24G 

CHAPTER    III. 

A  Scholar,  but  of  a  Different  Mould   from  the  Student  of  Grassdale. 

—  New  Particulars   Concerning   Geoffrey   Lester.  —  The   Journey 
Recommenced 254 


CONTENTS.  XXIX 

CHAPTER    IV. 

Page 
Aram's  Departure.  —  Madeline.  —  Exaggeration  of  Sentiment  Natural 

in    Love.  —  Madeline's    Letter.  —  Walter's.  —  The     Walk.  —  Two 

very   different  Persons,  yet  both    Inmates    of    the   same  Country 

Village.  —  The  Humors  of  Life  and  its  Dark  Passions  are  found 

in  Juxtaposition  everywhere 264 

CHAPTER  V. 

A  Reflection  New  and  Strange.  — The  Streets  of  London.  —  A  Great 
Man's  Library.  —  A  Conversation  between  tlie  Student  and  an 
Acquaintance  of  the  Reader.  —  Its  Results 278 

CHAPTER   VL 

I'he   Thames   at    Night.  —  A   Thought.  —  The    Student    Reseeks  the 

Ruffian.  —  A  Human  Feeling  even  in  the  Worst  Soil 284 

CHAPTER    VII. 

Madeline,  her  Hopes.  —  A  Mild  Autumn  Characterized.  —  A  Land- 
scape. —  A  Return 290 

CHAPTER    VIIL 

Affection  :  Its  Godlike  Nature.  —  The  Conversation  between  Aram  and 

Madeline.  — The  Fatalist  Forgets  Fate 293 

CHAPTER    IX. 

Walter  aud  the  Corporal  on  the  Road.  —  The  Evening  Sets  In.  —  The 
Gypsy  Tents.  —  Adventure  with  the  Horseman.  —  The  Corporal 
Discomfited,  and  the  Arrival  at  Knaresborough 297 

CHAPTER    X. 

Walter's  Reflections.  —  Mine  Host.  —  A  Gentle  Character  and  a  Green 
Old  Age. — The  Garden,  and  That  which  it  Teacheth.  —  A 
Dialogue  wherein  New  Hints  towards  the  Wished-for  Discovery 
are  Suggested.  —  The  Curate.  —  A  Visit  to  a  Spot  of  Deep  In- 
terest to  the  Adventurer 306 

CHAPTER    XI. 

Grief  in  a  Ruffian.  —  The  Chamber  of  Early  Death.  —  A  Homely  Yet 
Momentous  Confession.  —  The  Earth's  Secrets.  —  The  Cavern.  — 
—  The  Accusation 323 


XXX  CONTENTS. 

IIBOOU   V. 

CHAPTER   I. 

Page 
Grassdale.  —  The  Morning  of  the  Marriage.  —  The  Crones'  Gossip. — 

The  Bride  at  Her  Toilet. —The  Arrival 335 

CHAPTER    II. 

The  Student  Alone   in   His  Chamber.  —  The  Interruption.  —  Faithful 

Love 340 

CHAPTER   III. 

The  Justice. — The  Departure.  —  The  Equanimity  of  the  Corporal  in 
Bearing  the  Misfortunes  of  Other  People.  —  The  Examination  ;  Its 
Result.  —  Aram's  Conduct  in  Prison.  —  The  Elasticity  of  ( )nr 
Human  Nature.  —  A  Visit  from  the  Earl.  —  Walter's  Determina- 
tion.—  Madeline 353 

CHAPTER    IV. 

The  Evening  Before  the  Trial.  —  The  Cousins.  —  The  Change  in  Made- 
line. —  Tlie  Family  of  Grassdale  meet  Once  More  beneath  One 
Roof 370 

CHAPTER    V. 
The  Trial 378 

CHAPTER    VI. 
The  Death.  —  The  Prison.  —  An  Interview.  —  Its  Result 392 

CHAPTER   VII. 
The  Confession ;  and  the  Fate 398 

CHAPTER   VIII  AND   LAST. 

The  Traveller's  Return.  —  The  Country  Village  Once  More  Visited. — 
Its  Inhabitants.  —  The  Remembered  Brook.  —  The  Deserted 
Manor-House.  —  The  Church- Yard.  —  The  Traveller  Resumes  His 
Journey.  —  The  Country  Town.  —  A  Meeting  of  Two  Lovers  after 
Long  Absence  and  Much  Sorrow. — Conclusion 418 

Advertisement ^31 

Eugene  Aram,  A  Tragedy 433 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Pack 

"A  Publican,  a  Sinner,  and  a  Stranger"      ....      Frontispiece 

Akam  and  Madeline  in  "The  Lady's  Seat" 81 

Aram  and  Houseman  in  the  Cave 229 

The  Sisters 339 


EUGENE    ARAM. 


BOOK    I. 

T«.     *eD,  ^eD"  <ppove7v  as  Setvhv  tvQa  fii]  reXr} 
\vet  (ppovovvTi. 

"Oj.     Tt  S'  icxriv  ;  iis  &dvfios  etae\r]\vdas. 
Tet.     "Acpes  fi   is  oIkovs'  ^acrra  yap  rh  a6v  T6  <tv 
Kayio  SioiffO}  Tou/udf,  fju  ffiol  irldrj. 

—  'OiS.  Tvp.     316-321. 

Tei.  Alas!  alas!  how  sad  it  is  to  be  wise  when  it  is  not  advantageous  to 
him  who  is  so. 

Oi.    Biit  what  is  the  cause  that  you  come  hither  sad? 
Tei.    Dismiss  me  to  my  house  ;  for  both  you  will  bear  your  fate  easier,  and 
I  mine,  if  you  take  my  advice. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE  VILLAGE.  —  ITS  INHABITANTS.  —  AN  OLD  MANOR-HOUSE, 
AND  AN  ENGLISH  FAMILY  ;  THEIR  HISTOKT,  INVOLVING 
A   MYSTERIOUS    EVENT. 

Protected  by  the  divinity  they  adored,  supported  by  the  earth  which  they 
cultivated,  and  at  peace  with  themselves,  they  enjoyed  the  sweets  of  life  with- 
out dreading  or  desiring  dissolution.  —  Numa  Pompilius. 

In  the  county  of there  is  a  sequestered  hamlet  which  1 

have  often  sought  occasion  to  pass,  and  which  I  have  never 
left  without  a  certain  reluctance  and  regret.  The  place,  indeed, 
is  associated  with  the  memory  of  events  that  still  retain  a 
singular  and  fearful  interest ;  but  the  scene  needs  not  the 
charm  of  legend  to  arrest  the  attention  of  the  traveller.  In  no 
part  of  the  world  which  it  has  been  my  lot  to  visit  have  I  seen 

1 


2  EUGENE  ARAM. 

a  landscape  of  more  pastoral  beauty.  The  hamlet  —  to  Avhich  I 
shall  here  give  the  name  of  Grassdale  —  is  situated  in  a  valley, 
which  for  about  the  length  of  a  mile  winds  among  gardens  and 
orchards  laden  with  fruit,  between  two  chains  of  gentle  and 
fertile  hills. 

Here,  singly  or  in  pairs,  are  scattered  cottages,  which  bespeak 
a  comfort  and  a  rural  luxury  less  often  than  our  poets  have  de- 
scribed the  characteristics  of  the  English  peasantry.  It  has 
been  observed  that  wherever  you  see  a  flower  in  a  cottage  gar- 
den, or  a  bird-cage  at  a  cottage  casement,  you  may  feel  sure  that 
the  inmates  are  better  and  wiser  than  their  neighbors ;  and 
such  humble  tokens  of  attention  to  something  beyond  the  ster- 
ile labor  of  life  were  (we  must  now  revert  to  the  past)  to  be 
remarked  in  almost  every  one  of  the  lowly  abodes  of  Grassdale. 
The  jasmine  here, — there  the  rose  or  honeysuckle,  clustered 
over  the  lattice  and  threshold,  not  so  wildly  as  to  testify  negli- 
gence, but  rather  to  sweeten  the  air  than  exclude  the  light. 
Each  of  the  cottages  possessed  at  its  rear  its  plot  of  ground  ap- 
portioned to  the  more  useful  and  nutritious  products  of  Nature  ; 
while  the  greater  part  of  them  fenced  also  from  the  unfre- 
quented road  a  little  spot  for  a  lupin,  the  sweet-pea,  the  wall- 
flower, or  the  stock.  And  it  is  not  unworthy  of  remark  that 
the  bees  came  in  greater  clusters  to  Grassdale  than  to  any  other 
part  of  that  rich  and  cultivated  district,  A  small  piece  of  waste 
land,  which  was  intersected  by  a  brook  fringed  with  osier  and 
dwarf  and  fantastic  pollards,  afforded  pasture  for  a  few  cows 
and  the  only  carrier's  solitary  horse.  The  stream  itself  was  of 
no  ignoble  repute  among  the  gentle  craft  of  the  Angle, — the 
brotherhood  whom  our  associations  defend  in  spite  of  our 
mercy ;  and  this  repute  drew  welcome  and  periodical  itinerants 
to  the  village,  who  furnished  it  with  its  scanty  news  of  the 
great  world  without,  and  maintained  in  a  decorous  custom  the 
little  and  single  host-elry  of  the  place.  Not  that  Peter  Dealtry, 
the  proprietor  of  The  Spotted  Dog,  was  altogether  contented  to 
subsist  upon  the  gains  of  his  hospitable  profession,  —  he  joined 
thereto  the  light  cares  of  a  small  farm,  held  under  a  wealthy 
and  an  easy  landlord  ;  and  being  moreover  honored  with  the 
dignity  of  clerk  to  the  parish,  he  was  deemed  by  his  neighbors 


EUGENE  ARAM.  3 

a  person  of  no  small  accomplishments  and  no  insignificant  dis- 
tinction. He  was  a  little,  dry,  thin  man,  of  a  turn  rather  sen- 
timental than  jocose.  A  memory  well-stored  with  fag-ends  of 
psalms  and  hymns  (which,  being  less  familiar  than  the  psalms 
to  the  ears  of  the  villagers,  were  more  than  suspected  to  be  his 
own  composition)  often  gave  a  poetic  and  semi-religious  color- 
ing to  his  conversation,  which  accorded  rather  with  his  dignity 
in  the  church  than  his  post  at  The  Spotted  Dog.  Yet  he  dis- 
liked not  his  joke,  though  it  was  subtle  and  delicate  of  nature  ; 
nor  did  he  disdain  to  bear  companionship  over  his  own  liquor 
with  guests  less  gifted  and  refined. 

In  the  centre  of  the  village  you  chanced  upon  a  cottage  which 
had  been  lately  whitewashed,  where  a  certain  preciseness  in 
the  owner  might  be  detected  in  the  clipped  hedge  and  the 
exact  and  newly  mended  stile  by  which  you  approached  the 
habitation.  Herein  dwelt  the  beau  and  bachelor  of  the  village, 
—  somewhat  antiquated,  it  is  true,  but  still  an  object  of  great 
attention  and  some  hope  to  the  elder  damsels  in  the  vicinity, 
and  of  a  respectful  popularity  (that  did  not,  however,  prohibit  a 
joke)  among  the  younger.  Jacob  Bunting  —  so  was  this  gen- 
tleman called  —  had  been  for  many  years  in  the  king's  service, 
in  which  he  had  risen  to  the  rank  of  corporal,  and  had  saved 
and  pinched  together  a  certain  small  independence,  upon  which 
he  now  rented  his  cottage  and  enjoyed  his  leisure.  He  had 
seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world,  and  profited  in  shrewdness  by 
his  experience ;  he  had  rubbed  off,  however,  all  superfluous  de- 
votion as  he  rubbed  off  his  prejudices ;  and  though  he  drank 
more  often  than  any  one  else  with  the  landlord  of  The  Spotted 
Dog,  there  was  not  a  wit  in  the  place  who  showed  so  little  in- 
dulgence to  the  publican's  segments  of  psalmody.  Jacob  was 
a  tall,  comely,  and  perpendicular  personage ;  his  threadbare 
coat  was  scrupulously  brushed,  and  his  hair  punctiliously  plas- 
tered at  the  sides  into  two  stiff,  obstinate-looking  curls,  and  at 
the  top  into  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  a  feather,  though  it 
was  much  more  like  a  tile.  His  conversation  had  in  it  some- 
thing peculiar ;  generally  it  assumed  a  quick,  short,  abrupt 
turn,  that,  retrenching  all  superfluities  of  pronoun  and  conjunc- 
tion, and  marching  at  once  upon  the  meaning  of  the  sentence, 


4  EUGENE   ARAM. 

had  in  it  a  military  and  Spartan  significance  whicli  betrayed 
how  difficult  it  often  is  for  a  man  to  forget  that  he  has  been 
a  corporal.  Occasionally,  indeed,  —  for  where  but  in  farces 
is  the  phraseology  of  the  humorist  always  the  same  ?  —  he  es- 
caped into  a  more  enlarged  and  Christianlike  method  of  dealing 
with  the  king's  English ;  but  that  was  chiefly  noticeable  when 
from  conversation  he  launched  himself  into  lecture,  —  a  luxury 
the  worthy  soldier  loved  greatly  to  indulge  :  for  much  had  he 
seen,  and  somewhat  had  he  reflected ;  and  valuing  himself 
—  which  was  odd  in  a  corporal  —  more  on  his  knowledge  of 
the  world  than  his  knowledge  of  war,  he  rarely  missed  any 
occasion  of  edifying  a  patient  listener  with  the  result  of  his 
observations. 

After  you  have  sauntered  by  the  veteran's  door,  beside 
which  you  generally,  if  the  evening  were  fine,  or  he  was  not 
drinking  with  neighbor  Dealtry,  or  taking  his  tea  with  gossip 
this  or  master  that,  or  teaching  some  emulous  urchins  the 
broadsword  exercise,  or  snaring  trout  in  the  stream,  or,  in 
short,  otherwise  engaged,  —  beside  which,  I  say,  you  not  un- 
frequently  beheld  him  sitting  on  a  rude  bench,  and  enjoying 
with  half-shut  eyes,  crossed  legs,  but  still  unindulgently  erect 
posture,  the  luxury  of  his  pipe,  —  you  ventured  over  a  little 
wooden  bridge,  beneath  which,  clear  and  shallow,  ran  the  rivu- 
let we  have  before  honorably  mentioned,  and  a  walk  of  a  few 
minutes  brought  you  to  a  moderately-sized  and  old-fashioned 
mansion,  the  manor-house  of  the  parish.  It  stood  at  the  very 
foot  of  a  hill ;  behind,  a  rich,  ancient,  and  hanging  wood  brought 
into  relief  the  exceeding  freshness  and  verdure  of  the  patch  of 
green  meadow  immediately  in  front.  On  one  side,  the  garden 
was  bounded  by  the  village  church-yard,  with  its  simple  mounds 
and  its  few  scattered  and  humble  tombs.  The  church  was  of 
great  antiquity;  and  it  was  only  in  one  point  of  view  that 
you  caught  more  than  a  glimpse  of  its  gray  tower  and  graceful 
spire,  so  thickly  and  so  darkly  grouped  the  yew-tree  and  the 
pine  around  the  edifice.  Opposite  the  gate  by  which  you 
gained  the  house,  the  view  was  not  extended,  but  rich  with 
wood  and  pasture,  backed  by  a  hill  which,  less  verdant  than  its 
fellows,  was  covered  with  sheep ;  while  you  saw  hard  by,  the 


EUGENE   ARAM.  5 

rivulet  darkening  and  stealing  away  till  your  sight,  thougli  not 
your  ear,  lost  it  among  the  woodland. 

Trained  up  the  embrowned  paling  on  either  side  of  the  gate 
were  bushes  of  rustic  fruit ;  and  fruit  and  flowers  (through 
plots  of  which  green  and  winding  alleys  had  been  cut  with  no 
untasteful  hand)  testified,  by  their  thriving  and  healthful  looks, 
the  care  bestowed  upon  them.  The  main  boasts  of  the  garden 
were,  on  one  side  a  huge  horse-chestnut-tree,  —  the  largest  in 
the  village,  —  and  on  the  other  an  arbor  covered  with  honey- 
suckles and  tapestried  within  by  moss.  The  house,  a  gray  and 
quaint  building  of  the  time  of  James  I.,  with  stone  copings 
and  gable  roof,  could  scarcely  in  these  days  have  been  deemed 
a  fitting  residence  for  the  lord  of  the  manor.  Nearly  the  whole 
of  the  centre  was  occupied  by  the  hall,  in  which  the  meals  of 
the  family  were  commonly  held ;  only  two  other  sitting-rooms, 
of  very  moderate  dimensions,  had  been  reserved  by  the  architect 
for  the  convenience  or  ostentation  of  the  proprietor.  An  ample 
porch  jutted  from  the  main  building,  and  this  was  covered  with 
ivy,  as  the  sides  of  the  windows  were  with  jasmine  and  honey- 
suckle ;  while  seats  were  ranged  inside  the  porch  carved  with 
many  a  rude  initial  and  long  past  date. 

The  owner  of  this  mansion  bore  the  name  of  Rowland  Les- 
ter. His  forefathers,  without  pretending  to  high  antiquity  of 
family,  had  held  the  dignity  of  squires  of  Grassdale  for  some 
two  centuries ;  and  Rowland  Lester  was  perhaps  the  first  of 
the  race  who  had  stirred  above  fifty  miles  from  the  house  in 
which  each  successive  lord  had  received  his  birth,  or  the  green 
church-yard  in  which  was  yet  chronicled  his  death.  The  pres- 
ent proprietor  was  a  man  of  cultivated  tastes ;  and  abilities, 
naturally  not  much  above  mediocrity,  had  been  improved  by 
travel  as  well  as  study.  Himself  and  one  younger  brother 
had  been  early  left  masters  of  their  fate  and  their  several 
portions.  The  younger,  Geoffrey,  testified  a  roving  and  dissi- 
pated turn.  Bold,  licentious,  extravagant,  unprincipled,  his 
career  soon  outstripped  the  slender  fortunes  of  a  cadet  in  the 
family  of  a  country  squire.  He  was  early  thrown  into  diffi- 
culties, but  by  some  means  or  other  they  never  seemed  to  over- 
whelm him ;  an  unexpected  turn,  a  lucky  adventure,  presented 


6  EUGENE  ARAM. 

itself  at  the  very  moment  when  Fortune  appeared  the  most 
utterly  to  have  deserted  him. 

Among  these  more  propitious  fluctuations  in  the  tide  of 
affairs  was,  at  about  the  age  of  forty,  a  sudden  marriage  with 
a  young  lady  of  what  might  be  termed  (for  Geoffrey  Lester's 
rank  of  life,  and  the  rational  expenses  of  that  day)  a  very 
competent  and  respectable  fortune.  Unhappily,  however,  the 
lady  was  neither  handsome  in  feature  nor  gentle  in  temper ; 
and  after  a  few  years  of  quarrel  and  contest,  the  faithless 
husband,  one  bright  morning,  having  collected  in  his  proper 
person  whatever  remained  of  their  fortune,  absconded  from 
the  conjugal  hearth  without  either  warning  or  farewell.  He 
left  nothing  to  his  wife  but  his  house,  his  debts,  and  his  only 
child,  a  son.  From  that  time  to  the  present  little  had  been 
known,  though  much  had  been  conjectured,  concerning  the 
deserter.  For  the  first  few  years  they  traced,  however,  so  far 
of  his  fate  as  to  learn  that  he  had  been  seen  once  in  India ; 
and  that  previously  he  had  been  met  in  England  by  a  relation, 
under  the  disguise  of  assumed  names,  —  a  proof  that  whatever 
his  occupations,  they  could  scarcely  be  very  respectable.  But 
of  late  nothing  whatsoever  relating  to  the  wanderer  had  tran- 
spired. By  some  he  was  imagined  dead ;  by  most  he  was 
forgotten.  Those  more  immediately  connected  with  him  — 
his  brother  in  especial  —  cherished  a  secret  belief  that  where- 
ever  Geoffrey  Lester  should  chance  to  alight,  the  manner  of 
alighting  would  (to  use  the  significant  and  homely  metaphor) 
be  always  on  his  legs ;  and  coupling  the  wonted  luck  of  the 
scapegrace  with  the  fact  of  his  having  been  seen  in  India, 
Rowland  in  his  heart  not  only  hoped,  but  fully  expected,  that 
the  lost  one  would,  some  day  or  other,  return  home  laden  with 
the  spoils  of  the  East,  and  eager  to  shower  upon  his  relatives, 
m  recompense  of  long  desertion,  — 

"With  richest  hand     .     .     .     barbaric  pearl  and  gold." 

But  we  must  return  to  the  forsaken  spouse.  Left  in  this 
A.brui)t  destitution  and  distress,  Mrs.  Lester  had  only  the 
resource  of  applying  to  her  brother-in-law,  whom  indeed  the 
fugitive  had  before  seized  many  opportunities  of  not  leaving 


EUGENE  ARAM.  7 

wholly  unprepared  for  such  an  application.  Rowland  promptly 
and  generously  obeyed  the  summons  :  he  took  the  child  and 
the  wife  to  his  own  home  ;  he  freed  the  latter  from  the  per- 
secutions of  all  legal  claimants ;  and  after  selling  such  effects 
as  remained,  he  devoted  the  whole  proceeds  to  the  forsaken 
family,  without  regarding  his  own  expenses  on  their  behalf, 
ill  as  he  was  able  to  afford  the  luxury  of  that  self-neglect. 
The  wife  did  not  long  need  the  asylum  of  his  hearth,  —  she, 
poor  lady,  died  of  a  slow  fever,  produced  by  irritation  and 
disappointment,  a  few  months  after  Geoffrey's  desertion.  She 
had  no  need  to  recommend  her  child  to  his  kind-hearted 
uncle's  care.  And  now  we  must  glance  over  the  elder  broths 
er's  domestic  fortunes. 

In  Rowland,  the  wild  dispositions  of  his  brother  were  so  far 
tamed  that  they  assumed  only  the  character  of  a  buoyant 
temper  and  a  gay  spirit.  He  had  strong  principles  as  well  as 
warm  feelings,  and  a  fine  and  resolute  sense  of  honor  utterly 
impervious  to  attack.  It  was  impossible  to  be  in  his  company 
an  hour  and  not  see  that  he  was  a  man  to  be  respected.  It 
was  equally  impossible  to  live  with  him  a  week  and  not  see 
that  he  was  a  man  to  be  beloved.  He  also  had  married,  and 
about  a  year  after  that  era  in  the  life  of  his  brother,  but  not 
for  the  same  advantage  of  fortune.  He  had  formed  an  attach- 
ment to  the  portionless  daughter  of  a  man  in  his  own  neigh- 
borhood and  of  his  own  rank.  He  wooed  and  won  her,  and 
for  a  few  years  he  enjoyed  that  greatest  happiness  which  the 
world  is  capable  of  bestowing,  — the  society  and  the  love  of 
one  in  whom  we  could  wish  for  no  change,  and  beyond  whom 
we  have  no  desire.  But  what  Evil  cannot  corrupt.  Fate  seldom 
spares.  A  few  months  after  the  birth  of  a  second  daughter, 
the  young  wife  of  Rowland  Lester  died.  It  was  to  a  widowed 
hearth  that  the  wife  and  child  of  his  brother  came  for  shelter. 
Rowland  was  a  man  of  an  affectionate  and  warm  heart :  if  the 
blow  did  not  crush,  at  least  it  changed  him.  Naturally  of  a 
cheerful  and  ardent  disposition,  his  mood  now  became  more 
sober  and  sedate.  He  shrank  from  the  rural  gayeties  and 
companionship  he  had  before  courted  and  enlivened,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  the  mourner  felt  the  holiness  of  soli- 


8  EUGENE  ARAM. 

tude.  As  his  nephew  and  his  motherless  daughters  grew  up, 
they  gave  an  object  to  his  seclusion  and  a  relief  to  his  reflec- 
tions. He  found  a  pure  and  unfailing  delight  in  watching  the 
growth  of  their  young  minds  and  guiding  their  differing  dis- 
positions ;  and  as  time  at  length  enabled  them  to  return  his 
affection  and  appreciate  his  cares,  he  became  once  more  sen- 
sible that  he  had  a  home. 

The  elder  of  his  daughters,  Madeline,  at  the  time  our  story 
opens,  had  attained  the  age  of  eighteen.  She  was  the  beauty 
and  the  boast  of  the  whole  country.  Above  the  ordinary  height, 
her  figure  was  richly  and  exquisitely  formed.  So  translucently 
.pure  and  soft  was  her  complexion  that  it  might  have  seemed 
the  token  of  delicate  health,  but  for  the  dewy  redness  of  her 
lips  and  the  freshness  of  teeth  whiter  than  pearls.  Her  eyes, 
of  a  deep  blue,  wore  a  thoughtful  and  serene  expression ;  and 
her  forehead,  higher  and  broader  than  it  usually  is  in  women, 
gave  promise  of  a  certain  nobleness  of  intellect,  and  added 
dignity  —  but  a  feminine  dignity  —  to  the  more  tender  charac- 
teristics of  her  beauty.  And,  indeed,  the  peculiar  tone  of 
Madeline's  mind  fulfilled  the  indication  of  her  features,  and 
was  eminently  thoughtful  and  high-wrought.  She  had  early 
testified  a  remarkable  love  for  study,  and  not  only  a  desire  for 
knowledge,  but  a  veneration  for  those  who  possessed  it.  The 
remote  corner  of  the  county  in  which  they  lived,  and  the 
rarely  broken  seclusion  which  Lester  habitually  preserved 
from  the  intercourse  of  their  few  and  scattered  neighbors,  had 
naturally  cast  each  member  of  the  little  circle  upon  his  or  her 
own  resources.  An  accident,  some  five  years  ago,  had  confined 
Madeline  for  several  weeks,  or  rather  months,  to  the  house ; 
and  as  the  old  Hall  possessed  a  very  respectable  share  of 
books,  she  had  then  matured  and  confirmed  that  love  for 
reading  and  reflection  which  she  had  at  a  yet  earlier  period 
prematurely  evinced.  The  woman's  tendency  to  romance 
naturally  tinctured  her  meditations,  and  thus,  while  they 
dignified,  they  also  softened  her  mind.  Her  sister  EUinor, 
younger  by  two  years,  was  of  a  character  equally  gentle,  but  • 
less  elevated.  She  looked  up  to  her  sister  as  a  superior  being. 
She  felt  pride,  without  a  shadow  of  envy,  for  Madeline's  su- 


EUGENE  ARAM.  9 

perior  and  surpassing  beauty,  and  was  unconsciously  guided  in 
her  pursuits  and  predilections  by  a  mind  which  she  cheerfully 
acknowledged  to  be  loftier  than  her  own.  And  yet  Ellinor 
had  also  her  pretensions  to  personal  loveliness,  and  preten- 
sions perhaps  that  would  be  less  reluctantly  acknowledged 
by  her  own  sex  than  those  of  her  sister.  The  sunlight  of  a 
happy  and  innocent  heart  sparkled  on  her  face,  and  gave  a 
beam  it  gladdened  you  to  behold  to  her  quick  hazel  eye,  and 
a  smile  that  broke  out  from  a  thousand  dimples.  She  did 
not  possess  the  height  of  Madeline ;  and  though  not  so  slen- 
der as  to  be  curtailed  of  the  roundness  and  feminine  luxuri- 
ance of  beauty,  her  shape  was  slighter,  feebler,  and  less  rich 
in  its  symmetry  than  her  sister's.  And  this  the  tendency  of 
the  physical  frame  to  require  elsewhere  support,  nor  to  feel 
secure  of  strength,  perhaps  influenced  her  mind,  and  made 
love,  and  the  dependence  of  love,  more  necessary  to  her  than 
to  the  thoughtful  and  lofty  Madeline.  The  latter  might  pass 
through  life,  and  never  see  the  one  to  whom  her  heart  could 
give  itself  away ;  but  every  village  might  possess  a  hero  whom 
the  imagination  of  Ellmor  could  clothe  with  unreal  graces, 
and  towards  whom  the  lovingness  of  her  disposition  might 
bias  her  affections.  Both,  however,  eminently  possessed  that 
earnestness  and  purity  of  heart  which  would  have  made  them, 
perhaps  in  an  equal  degree,  constant  and  devoted  to  the  object 
of  an  attachment  once  formed,  in  defiance  of  change,  and  to 
the  brink  of  death. 

Their  cousin  Walter,  Geoffrey  Lester's  son,  was  now  in  his 
twenty-first  year,  —  tall  and  strong  of  person,  and  with  a  face, 
if  not  regularly  handsome,  striking  enough  to  be  generally 
deemed  so.  High-spirited,  bold,  fiery,  impatient ;  jealous  of 
the  affections  of  those  he  loved ;  cheerful  to  outward  seeming, 
but  restless,  fond  of  change,  and  subject  to  the  melancholy 
and  pining  mood  common  to  young  and  ardent  minds  :  such 
was  the  character  of  Walter  Lester.  The  estates  of  Lester 
were  settled  in  the  male  line,  and  devolved  therefore  upon 
him.  Yet  there  were  moments  when  he  keenly  felt  his  orphan 
and  deserted  situation,  and  sighed  to  think  that  while  his 
father  perhaps  yet  lived,  he  was  a  dependant  for  affection,  if 


10  EUGENE   ARAM. 

not  for  maintenance,  on  the  kindness  of  others.  This  reflec- 
tion sometimes  gave  an  air  of  sullenness  or  petulance  to  his 
character  that  did  not  really  belong  to  it.  For  what  in  the 
world  makes  a  man  of  just  pride  appear  so  unamiable  as  the 
sense  of  dependence  ? 


CHAPTER  11. 

A    PUBLICAN,    A    SINNER,    AND    A    STKANGER. 

Ah,  Don  Alphonso,  is  it  you  '  Agreeable  accident !  Chance  presents  you 
to  my  eyes  where  you  were  least  expected.  —  Gil  Bias. 

It  was  an  evening  in  the  beginning  of  summer,  and  Peter 
Dealtry  and  the  ci-devant  corporal  sat  beneath  the  sign  of  The 
Spotted  Dog  (as  it  hung  motionless  from  the  bough  of  a  friendly 
elm),  quaffing  a  cup  of  boon  companionship.  The  reader  will 
imagine  the  two  men  very  different  from  each  other  in  form 
and  aspect :  the  one  short,  dry,  fragile,  and  betraying  a  love 
of  ease  in  his  unbuttoned  vest,  and  a  certain  lolling,  see-sawing 
method  of  balancing  his  body  upon  his  chair ;  the  other  erect 
and  solemn,  and  as  steady  on  his  seat  as  if  he  were  nailed  to 
it.  It  was  a  fine,  tranquil,  balmy  evening ;  the  sun  had  just 
set,  and  the  clouds  still  retained  the  rosy  tints  which  they  had 
caught  from  its  parting  ray.  Here  and  there,  at  scattered 
intervals,  you  might  see  the  cottages  peeping  from  the  trees 
around  them,  or  mark  the  smoke  that  rose  from  their  roofs, 
—  roofs  green  with  mosses  and  house-leek,  —  in  graceful  and 
spiral  curls  against  the  clear  soft  air.  It  was  an  English 
scene ;  and  the  two  men,  the  dog  at  their  feet  (for  Peter  Deal- 
try  favored  a  wiry,  stone-colored  cur,  which  he  called  a  ter- 
rier), and  just  at  the  door  of  the  little  inn  two  old  gossips 
loitering  on  the  threshold  in  familiar  chat  with  the  landlady 
in  cap  and  kerchief, — all  together  made  a  group  equally 
English,  and  somewhat  picturesque,  though  homely  enough 
in  effect. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  11 

"Well,  now,"  said  Peter  Dealtiy,  as  he  pushed  the  brown 
jug  towards  the  corporal,  *'  this  is  what  I  call  pleasant ;  it  puts 
me  in  mind  —  " 

*'  Of  what  ?  "  quoth  the  corporal. 

"  Of  those  nice  lines  in  the  hymn,  Master  Bunting  :  — 

"  '  How  fair  ye  are,  ye  little  hills, 
Ye  little  fields  also, 
Ye  murmuring  streams  that  sweetly  run, 
Ye  willows  iu  a  row  ! ' 

There  is  something  very  comfortable  in  sacred  verses,  Master 
Bunting.     But  you  're  a  scoffer." 

''  Pshaw,  man  ! "  said  the  corporal,  throwing  out  his  right  leg 
and  leaning  back,  with  his  eyes  half  shut,  and  his  chin  pro- 
truded, as  he  took  an  unusually  long  inhalation  from  his  pipe. 
"Pshaw,  man!  send  verses  to  the  right-about,  —  fit  for  girls 
going  to  school  of  a  Sunday  ;  full-grown  men  more  up  to  snuff. 
I  've  seen  the  world.  Master  Dealtry,  —  the  world,  and  be  d  —  d 
to  you  !  —  augh  ! " 

"  Fie,  neighbor,  fie  !  What 's  the  good  of  profaneness,  evil 
speaking,  and  slandering  ?  — 

•"  Oaths  are  the  debts  your  spendthrift  soul  must  pay; 
All  scores  are  chalked  against  the  reckouiug  day.' 

Just  wait  a  bit,  neighbor,  • —  wait  till  I  light  my  pipe." 

"  Tell  you  Avhat,"  said  the  corporal,  after  he  had  communi- 
cated from  his  own  pipe  the  friendly  flame  to  his  comrade's, 
"tell  you  what,  — talk  nonsense  ;  the  Commander-in-chief's  no 
martinet :  if  we  're  all  right  in  action,  he  '11  wink  at  a  slip  word 
or  two.  Come,  no  humbug ;  hold  jaw.  D'  ye  think  God  would 
sooner  have  a  snivelling  fellow  like  you  in  his  regiment  than 
a  man  like  me,  clean-limbed,  straight  as  a  dart,  six  feet  one 
without  his  shoes  ?  —  baugh  !  " 

This  notion  of  the  corporal,  by  which  he  would  have  likened 
the  dominion  of  heaven  to  the  King  of  Prussia's  body-guard, 
and  only  admitted  the  elect  on  account  of  their  inches,  so 
tickled  mine  host's  fancy  that  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
indulged   in   a  long,    dry,   obstreperous   cachinnation.      This 


12  EUGENE   ARAM. 

irreverence  mightily  displeased  the  corporal.  He  looked  at 
the  little  man  very  sourly,  and  said,  in  his  least  smooth 
accentuation,  — 

"  What  —  devil  —  cackling  at  ?  Always  grin,  grin,  grin  — 
giggle,  giggle,  giggle  —  pshaw  !  " 

"Why  really,  neighbor,"  said  Peter,  composing  himself, 
"you  must  let  a  man  laugh  now  and  then." 

"  Man  ! "  said  the  corporal,  —  "  man 's  a  noble  animal !  Man 's 
a  musket  primed,  loaded,  ready  to  save  a  friend  or  kill  a  foe, 
—  charge  not  to  be  wasted  on  every  tom-tit.  But  you,  —  not 
a  musket,  but  a  cracker !  Noisy,  harmless,  can't  touch  you 
but  off  you  go,  —  whiz,  pop,  bang  in  one's  face  !  —  baugh  !  " 

"  Well !  "  said  the  good-humored  landlord,  "  I  should  think 
Master  Aram,  the  great  scholar  who  lives  down  the  vale  yon- 
der, a  man  quite  after  your  own  heart.  He  is  grave  enough  to 
suit  you.     He  does  not  laugh  very  easily,  I  fancy." 

"  After  my  heart  ?     Stoops  like  a  bow  !  " 

"  Indeed  he  does  look  on  the  ground  as  he  walks,  —  when  I 
think,  I  do  the  same.  But  what  a  marvellous  man  it  is !  I 
hear  that  he  reads  the  Psalms  in  Hebrew.  He  's  very  affable 
and  meek-like  for  such  a  scholard." 

"  Tell  you  what.  Seen  the  world.  Master  Dealtry,  and  know 
a  thing  or  two.  Your  shy  dog  is  always  a  deep  one.  Give  me 
a  man  who  looks  me  in  the  face  as  he  would  a  cannon ! " 

"  Or  a  lass,"  said  Peter,  knowingly. 

The  grim  corporal  smiled. 

"  Talking  of  lasses,"  said  the  soldier,  re-filling  his  pipe, 
"  what  creature  Miss  Lester  is  !  Such  eyes  !  such  nose  !  Fit 
for  a  colonel,  by  Gad  !  ay,  or  a  major-general !  " 

"For  my  part,  I  think  Miss  Ellinor  almost  as  handsome, — 
not  so  grand-like,  but  more  lovesome." 

"  Nice  little  thing ! "  said  the  corporal,  condescendingly. 
"  But  zooks  !  whom  have  we  here  ?  " 

This  last  question  was  applied  to  a  man  who  was  slowly 
turning  from  the  road  towards  the  inn.  The  stranger,  for 
such  he  was,  was  stout,  thick-set,  and  of  middle  height.  His 
dress  was  not  without  pretension  to  a  rank  higher  than  the 
lowest;  but  it  was  threadbare  and  worn,  and  soiled  with  dust 


EUGENE  ARAM,  13 

and  travel.  His  appearance  was  by  no  means  prepossessing ; 
small,  sunken  eyes  of  a  light  hazel,  and  a  restless  and  rather 
fierce  expression,  a  thick  flat  nose,  high  cheek-bones,  a  large 
bony  jaw  from  which  the  flesh  receded,  and  a  bull-throat  indi- 
cative of  great  strength,  constituted  his  claims  to  personal 
attraction.  The  stately  corporal,  without  moving,  kept  a  vigi- 
lant and  suspicious  eye  upon  the  new-comer,  muttering  to 
Peter  :  "  Customer  for  you,  —  rum  customer  too,  by  Gad  !  " 

The  stranger  now  reached  the  little  table,  and  halting  short, 
took  up  the  brown  jug,  without  ceremony  or  preface,  and  emptied 
it  at  a  draught. 

The  corporal  stared,  the  corporal  frowned  ;  but  before  —  for 
he  was  somewhat  slow  of  speech  —  he  had  time  to  vent  his 
displeasure,  the  stranger,  wiping  his  mouth  with  his  sleeve, 
said,  in  rather  a  civil  and  apologetic  tone,  — 

"  I  beg  pardon,  gentlemen.  I  have  had  a  long  march  of  it, 
and  very  tired  I  am." 

"  Humph  !  march  ?  "  said  the  corporal,  a  little  appeased : 
"not  in  his  Majesty's  service,  eh  ?  " 

"Not  now,"  answered  the  traveller;  then,  turning  round  to 
Dealtry,  he  said  :  "  Are  you  landlord  here  ?  " 

"At  your  service,"  said  Peter,  with  the  indifference  of  a 
man  well-to-do,  and  not  ambitious  of  halfpence. 

"  Come,  then,  quick,  budge  ! "  said  the  traveller,  tapping 
him  on  the  back.  "Bring  more  glasses,  another  jug  of  the 
October,  and  anything  or  everything  your  larder  is  able  to  pro- 
duce, —  d'  ye  hear  ?  " 

Peter,  by  no  means  pleased  with  the  briskness  of  this  address, 
eyed  the  dusty  and  way-worn  pedestrian  from  head  to  foot ; 
then,  looking  over  his  shoulder  towards  the  door,  he  said,  as  he 
ensconced  himself  yet  more  firmly  on  his  seat,  — 

"  There  's  my  wife  by  the  door,  friend ;  go,  tell  her  what  you 
want." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  the  traveller,  in  a  slow  and  measured 
accent,  "  do  you  know.  Master  Shrivel-face,  that  I  have  more 
than  half  a  mind  to  break  your  head  for  impertinence  ?  You 
a  landlord  !  You  keep  an  inn,  indeed !  Come,  sir,  make  off, 
or—" 


14  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"  Corporal,  corporal ! "  cried  Peter,  retreating  hastily  from  his 
seat  as  the  brawny  traveller  approached  menacingly  towards 
him,  "  you  won't  see  the  peace  broken.  Have  a  care,  friend, 
have  a  care.  I  'm  clerk  to  the  parish,  —  clerk  to  the  parish, 
sir ;  and  I  '11  indict  you  for  sacrilege." 

The  wooden  features  of  Bunting  relaxed  into  a  sort  of  grin 
at  the  alarm  of  his  friend.  He  puffed  away,  without  making 
any  reply;  meanwhile  the  traveller,  taking  advantage  of  Peter's 
hasty  abandonment  of  his  cathedrarian  accommodation,  seized 
the  vacant  chair,  and  drawing  it  yet  closer  to  the  table,  flung 
himself  upon  it,  and  placing  his  hat  on  the  table,  wiped  his 
brows  with  the  air  of  a  man  about  to  make  himself  thoroughly 
at  home. 

Peter  Dealtry  was  assuredly  a  personage  of  peaceable  disposi- 
tion ;  but  then  he  had  the  proper  pride  of  a  host  and  a  clerk. 
His  feelings  were  exceedingly  wounded  at  this  cavalier  treat- 
ment :  before  the  very  eyes  of  his  wife  too  !  What  an  example ! 
He  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  breeches'  pockets,  and  strut- 
ting with  a  ferocious  swagger  towards  the  traveller,  he  said,  — 

"  Hark  ye,  sirrah !  this  is  not  the  way  folks  are  treated  in 
this  country ;  and  I  'd  have  you  to  know  that  I  'm  a  man  what 
has  a  brother  a  constable." 

"Well,  sir!" 

"  Well,  sir,  indeed !  Well !  Sir,  it 's  not  well,  by  no  man- 
ner of  means  ;  and  if  you  don't  pay  for  the  ale  you  drank,  and 
go  quietly  about  your  business,  I  '11  have  you  put  in  the  stocks 
for  a  vagrant." 

This,  the  most  menacing  speech  Peter  Dealtry  was  ever 
known  to  deliver,  was  uttered  with  so  much  spirit  that  the 
corporal,  who  had  hitherto  preserved  silence,  —  for  he  was  too 
strict  a  disciplinarian  to  thrust  himself  unnecessarily  into 
brawls,  — turned  approvingly  round,  and  nodding  as  well  as 
his  stock  would  suffer  him  at  the  indignant  Peter,  he  said, 
"  Well  done  !  'Fegs  —  you  've  a  soul,  man  !  —  a  soul  fit  for 
the  Forty-second  —  augh !  A  soul  above  the  inches  of  five 
feet  two ! " 

There  was  something  bitter  and  sneering  in  the  traveller's 
aspect  as  he  now,  regarding  Dealtry,  repeated,  — 


EUGENE   ARAM.  15 

"  Vagrant !  humph !     And  pray  what  is  a  vagrant  ?  " 

"  What  is  a  vagrant  ?  "  echoed  Peter,  a  little  puzzled. 

"  Yes !  answer  me  that." 

"  Why,  a  vagrant  is  a  man  what  wanders,  and  what  has  no 
money." 

"  Truly,"  said  the  stranger,  smiling,  —  but  the  smile  by  no 
means  improved  his  physiognomy,  —  "  an  excellent  definition  ; 
but  one  which,  I  will  convince  you,  does  not  apply  to  me." 
So  saying,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  handful  of  silver  coins, 
and  throwing  them  on  the  table,  added  :  "  Come,  let 's  have  no 
more  of  this.  You  see  I  can  pay  for  what  I  order  ;  and  now, 
do  recollect  that  I  am  a  weary  and  hungry  man." 

No  sooner  did  Peter  behold  the  money  than  a  sudden  placi- 
dity stole  over  his  ruffled  spirit,  nay,  — a  certain  benevolent  com- 
miseration for  the  fatigue  and  wants  of  the  traveller  replaced 
at  once,  and  as  by  a  spell,  the  angry  feelings  that  had  previously 
roused  him. 

''  Weary  and  hungry,"  said  he,  —  "  why  did  not  you  say  that 
before  ?  That  would  have  been  quite  enough  for  Peter  Dealtry. 
Thank  Heaven  !  I  am  a  man  what  can  feel  for  my  neighbors. 
I  have  bowels,  —  yes,  I  have  bowels.  Weary  and  hungry !  — 
you  shall  be  served  in  an  instant.  I  may  be  a  little  hasty  or 
so,  but  I  'm  a  good  Christian  at  bottom,  —  ask  the  corporal. 
And  what  says  the  Psalmist,  Psalm  147  ?  — 

"  '  By  Him  the  beasts  that  loosely  range 
With  timely  food  are  fed; 
He  speaks  the  word,  and  what  He  wills 
Is  done  as  soon  as  said.'  " 

Animating  his  kindly  emotions  by  this  apt  quotation,  Peter 
turned  to  the  house.  The  corporal  now  broke  silence  ;  the 
sight  of  the  money  had  not  been  without  an  effect  upon  him  as 
well  as  the  landlord. 

"  Warm  day,  sir.  Your  health !  Oh  !  forgot  you  emptied 
jug — baugh  !  You  said  you.  were  not  now  in  his  Majesty's 
service  :  beg  pardon,  —  were  you  ever  ?  " 

"  Why,  once  I  was,  —  many  years  ago." 

"  Ah !   and  what  regiment  ?     I  was   in  the   Forty-second. 


16  EUGENE   ARAM. 

Heard  of  the  Forty-second  ?  Colonel's  name  Dysart ;  captain's, 
Trotter ;  corporal's,  Bunting,  —  at  your  service." 

"  I  am  much  obliged  by  your  confidence,"  said  the  traveller, 
dryly.     "  I  dare  say  you  have  seen  much  service." 

"  Service  !  Ah  !  may  well  say  that,  —  twenty-three  years' 
hard  work ;  and  not  the  better  for  it !  A  man  that  loves  his 
country  is  'titled  to  a  pension,  —  that 's  my  mind  !  But  the 
world  don't  smile  upon  corporals  —  augh  !  " 

Here  Peter  reappeared  with  a  fresh  supply  of  the  October, 
and  an  assurance  that  the  cold  meat  would  speedily  follow. 

"  I  hope  yourself  and  this  gentleman  will  bear  me  company," 
said  the  travellei*,  passing  the  jug  to  the  corporal ;  and  in  a 
few  moments,  so  well  pleased  grew  the  trio  with  each  other 
that  the  sound  of  their  laughter  came  loud  and  frequent  to  the 
ears  of  the  good  housewife  within. 

The  traveller  now  seemed  to  the  corporal  and  mine  host  a 
right  jolly,  good-humored  fellow.  Not,  however,  that  he  bore  a 
fair  share  in  the  conversation ;  he  rather  promoted  the  hilarity 
of  his  new  acquaintances  than  led  it.  He  laughed  heartily  at 
Peter's  jests  and  the  corporal's  repartees ;  and  the  latter,  by 
degrees  assuming  the  usual  sway  he  bore  m  the  circles  of  the 
village,  contrived,  before  the  viands  were  on  the  table,  to 
monopolize  the  whole  conversation. 

The  traveller  found  in  the  repast  a  new  excuse  for  silence. 
He  ate  with  a  most  prodigious  and  most  contagious  appetite ; 
and  in  a  few  seconds  the  knife  and  fork  of  the  corporal  were 
as  busily  engaged  as  if  he  had  had  only  three  minutes  to  spare 
between  a  march  and  a  dinner. 

"  This  is  a  pretty  retired  spot,"  quoth  the  traveller,  as  at 
length  he  finished  his  repast  and  threw  himself  back  on  his 
chair,  —  "a  very  pretty  spot.  Whose  neat  old-fashioned  house 
was  that  I  passed  on  the  green,  with  the  gable-ends  and  the 
flower-pots  in  front  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  squire's,"  answered  Peter.  "  Squire  Lester  's  an 
excellent  gentleman." 

"  A  rich  man,  I  should  think,  for  these  parts,  —  the 
best  house  I  have  seen  for  some  miles,"  said  the  stranger, 
carelessly. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  17 

"  Eich  ?  Yes,  he 's  well  to  do  ;  he  does  not  live  so  as  not  to 
have  money  to  lay  by." 

"Any  family?" 

"  Two  daughters  and  a  nephew." 

"  And  the  nephew  does  not  ruin  him  ?  Happy  uncle  !  Mine 
was  not  so  lucky !  "  said  the  traveller. 

"  Sad  fellows  we  soldiers  in  our  young  days  ! "  observed  the 
corporal,  with  a  wink.  "No,  Squire  Walter's  a  good  young 
man,  a  pride  to  his  uncle  !  " 

"  So,"  said  the  pedestrian,  "  they  are  not  forced  to  keep  up  a 
large  establishment  and  ruin  themselves  by  a  retinue  of  ser- 
vants ?     Corporal,  the  jug." 

"  Xay,"  said  Peter,  "Squire  Lester's  gate  is  always  open  to  the 
poor ;  but  as  for  show,  he  leaves  that  to  my  lord  at  the  castle." 

"  The  castle  !     Where  's  that  ?  " 

"  About  six  miles  off,  —  you  've  heard  of  my  Lord ,  I  '11 

swear." 

"  Ay,  to  be  sure,  —  a  courtier.  But  who  else  lives  about 
here,  —  I  mean,  who  are  the  principal  persons,  barring  the 
corporal  and  yourself  ?  —  Mr.  Eelpry,  I  think  our  friend  here 
calls  you." 

"Dealtry,  Peter  Dealtry,  sir,  is  my  name.  Why,  the  most 
noticeable  man,  you  must  know,  is  a  great  scholard,  a  wonder- 
fully learned  man,  —  there,  yonder,  you  may  just  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  tall  what-d'ye-call-it  he  has  built  out  on  the 
top  of  his  house,  that  he  may  get  nearer  to  the  stars.  He  has 
got  glasses  by  which  I  've  heard  that  you  may  see  the  people 
in  the  moon  walking  on  their  heads;  but  I  can't  say  as  I  believe 
all  I  hear." 

"  You  are  too  sensible  for  that,  I  'm  sure.  But  this  scholar, 
I  suppose,  is  not  very  rich  :  learning  does  not  clothe  men  now- 
adays, eh,  corporal  ?  " 

"And  why  should  it?  Zounds!  can  it  teach  a  man  hoAv 
to  defend  his  country  ?  Old  England  wants  soldiers,  and  be 
d — d  to  them  !  But  the  man  's  well  enough,  I  must  own,  — 
civil,  modest  —  " 

"  And  not  by  no  means  a  beggar,"  added  Peter  ;  "  he  gave  as 
much  to  the  poor  last  winter  as  the  squire  himself." 

2 


18  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  stranger  ;  "  this  scholar  is  rich, 
then  ?  " 

"  So,  so  ;  neither  one  nor  t'  other.  But  if  he  were  as  rich  as 
my  lord  he  could  not  be  more  respected  ;  the  greatest  folks  in 
the  country  come  in  their  carriages  and  four  to  see  him.  Lord 
bless  you !  there  is  not  a  name  more  talked  on  in  the  whole 
county  than  Eugene  Aram." 

"  What ! "  cried  the  traveller,  his  countenance  changing  as 
he  sprang  from  his  seat.  "  What !  —  Aram  !  —  did  you  say 
Aram  ?  Great  God  !  how  strange  !  " 

Peter,  not  a  little  startled  by  the  abruptness  and  vehemence 
of  his  guest,  stared  at  him  with  open  mouth,  and  even  the 
corporal  involuntarily  took  his  pipe  from  his  lips. 

"  What !  "  said  the  former:  "  you  know  him,  do  you  ?  You  've 
heard  of  him,  eh  ?  " 

The  stranger  did  not  reply.  He  seemed  lost  in  a  revery ; 
he  muttered  inaudible  words  between  his  teeth ;  now  he  strode 
two  steps  forward,  clenching  his  hands  ;  now  smiled  grimly ; 
and  then,  returning  to  his  seat,  threw  himself  on  it,  still  in 
silence.  The  soldier  and  the  clerk  exchanged  looks,  and  now 
outspake  the  corporal,  — 

"  Rum  tantrums !  Wliat  the  devil !  did  the  man  eat  your 
grandmother  ?  " 

Roused,  perhaps,  by  so  pertinent  and  sensible  a  question,  the 
stranger  lifted  his  head  from  his  breast  and  said,  with  a  forced 
smile,  "You  have  done  me,  without  knowing  it,  a  great  kind- 
ness, my  friend.  Eugene  Aram  was  an  early  and  intimate 
acquaintance  of  mine  ;  we  have  not  met  for  many  years.  I 
never  guessed  that  he  lived  in  these  parts,  —  indeed  I  did  not 
know  where  he  resided.  I  am  truly  glad  to  think  I  have  lighted 
upon  him  thus  unexpectedly." 

"  What !  you  did  not  know  where  he  lived  ?  Well,  I  thought 
all  the  world  knew  that !  Why,  men  from  the  univarsities 
have  come  all  the  way  merely  to  look  at  the  spot." 

"  Very  likely,"  returned  the  stranger ;  "  but  I  am  not  a 
learned  man  myself,  and  what  is  celebrity  in  one  set  is  ob- 
scurity in  another.  Besides,  I  have  never  been  in  this  part 
of  the  world  before." 


EUGENE  ARAM.  19 

Peter  was  about  to  reply,  when  he  heard  the  shrill  voice  of 
Ms  wife  behind. 

"  Why  don't  you  rise,  Mr.  Lazyboots  ?  Where  are  your 
eyes  ?    Don't  you  see  the  young  ladies  ?  " 

Dealtry's  hat  was  off  in  an  instant :  the  stiff  corporal  rose 
like  a  musket.  The  stranger  would  have  kept  his  seat,  but 
Dealtry  gave  him  an  admonitory  tug  by  the  collar ;  accord- 
ingly he  rose,  muttering  a  hasty  oath,  which  certainly  died  on 
his  lips  when  he  saw  the  cause  which  had  thus  constrained 
him  into  courtesy. 

Through  a  little  gate  close  by  Peter's  house  Madeline  and 
her  sister  had  just  passed  on  their  evening  walk ;  and  with  the 
kind  familiarity  for  which  they  were  both  noted,  they  had 
stopped  to  salute  the  landlady  of  The  Spotted  Dog  as  she  now, 
her  labors  done,  sat  by  the  threshold,  within  hearing  of  the 
convivial  group,  and  plaiting  straw.  The  whole  family  of  Les- 
ter were  so  beloved  that  we  question  whether  my  lord  himself, 
as  the  great  nobleman  of  the  place  was  always  called  (as  if 
there  were  only  one  lord  in  the  peerage),  would  have  obtained 
the  same  degree  of  respect  that  was  always  lavished  upon 
them. 

"  Don't  let  US  disturb  you,  good  people,"  said  Ellinor,  as 
they  now  moved  towards  the  boon  companions  ;  when,  her  eye 
suddenly  falling  on  the  stranger,  she  stopped  short.  There 
was  something  in  his  appearance,  and  especially  in  the  expres- 
sion of  his  countenance  at  that  moment,  which  no  one  could 
have  marked  for  the  first  time  without  apprehension  and  dis- 
trust ;  and  it  was  so  seldom  that,  in  that  retired  spot,  the  young 
ladies  encountered  even  one  unfamiliar  face  that  the  effect  the 
stranger's  appearance  might  have  produced  on  any  one,  might 
well  be  increased  for  them  to  a  startling  and  painful  degree. 
The  traveller  saw  at  once  the  sensation  he  had  created ;  his 
brow  lowered ;  and  the  same  unpleasant  smile,  or  rather  sneer, 
that  we  have  noted  before,  distorted  his  lij),  as  with  affected 
humility  he  made  his  obeisance. 

"  How,  a  stranger ! "  said  Madeline,  sharing,  though  in  a  less 
degree,  the  feelings  of  her  sister ;  and  then,  after  a  pause,  she 
said,  as  she  glanced  over  his  garb,  "  not  in  distress,  I  hope  ?  " 


20  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"  No,  madam ! "  said  the  stranger,  —  "  if  by  distress  is  meant 
beggary.     I  am  in  all  respects,  perhaps,  better  than  I  seem." 

There  was  a  general  titter  from  the  corporal,  my  host,  and 
his  wife  at  the  traveller's  semi-jest  at  his  own  unprepossessing 
appearance  ;  but  Madeline,  a  little  disconcerted,  bowed  hastily 
and  drew  her  sister  away. 

"  A  proud  quean  ! "  said  the  stranger  as  he  reseated  himself 
and  watched  the  sisters  gliding  across  the  green. 

All  mouths  were  opened  against  him  immediately.  He 
found  it  no  easy  matter  to  make  his  peace  ;  and  before  he 
had  quite  done  it,  he  called  for  his  bill  and  rose  to  depart. 

"  Well !  "  said  he,  as  he  tendered  his  hand  to  the  corporal, 
"  we  may  meet  again,  and  enjoy  together  some  more  of  your 
good  stories.  Meanwhile,  which  is  my  way  to  this  —  this  — 
famous  scholar's  ?  —  ehem  !  " 

"  Why,"  quoth  Peter,  "  you  saw  the  direction  in  which  the 
young  ladies  went :  you  must  take  the  same.  Cross  the  stile 
you  will  find  at  the  right,  wind  along  the  foot  of  the  hill  for 
about  three  parts  of  a  mile,  and  you  will  then  see,  in  the  middle 
of  a  broad  plain,  a  lonely  gray  house  with  a  thingumbob  at  the 
top,  —  a  'servatory  they  call  it ;  that 's  Master  Aram's." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  And  a  very  pretty  walk  it  is  too,"  said  the  dame ;  "  the 
prettiest  hereabouts  to  my  liking,  —  till  you  get  to  the  house, 
at  least.  And  so  the  young  ladies  think,  for  it 's  their  usual 
walk  every  evening." 

*'  Humph !     Then  I  may  meet  them." 

"Well,  and  if  you  do,  make  yourself  look  as  Christian-like 
as  you  can,"  retorted  the  hostess. 

There  was  a  second  grin  at  the  ill-favored  traveller's  expense, 
amidst  which  he  went  his  way. 

"  An  odd  chap,"  said  Peter,  looking  after  the  sturdy  form 
of  the  traveller.  "  I  wonder  what  he  is  ?  He  seems  well 
edicated,  —  makes  use  of  good  words." 

"What  sinnifies,"  said  the  corporal,  who  felt  a  sort  of  fel- 
low-feeling for  his  new  acquaintance's  bluffness  of  manner ; 
"  what  sinnifies  what  he  is  ?  Served  his  country,  —  that 's 
enough.     Never  told  me,  by  the  by,  his  regiment ;  set  me  a 


EUGENE  ARAM.  21 

talking,  and  let  out  nothing  himself,  —  old  soldier  every  inch 
of  him ! " 

"  He  can  take  care  of  number  one,"  said  Peter,  "  How  he 
emptied  the  jug  !     And,  my  stars,  what  an  appetite  ! " 

"  Tush  !  "  said  the  corporal ;  "  hold  jaw.  Man  of  the  world, 
man  of  the  world,  that 's  clear." 


CHAPTER  III. 

A   DIALOGUE   AND   AN  ALARM. A   STUDENt's    HOUSE. 

A  FELLOW  by  the  hand  of  Nature  marked, 
Quoted,  and  signed,  to  do  a  deed  of  shame. 

Shaicspeare  :  King  John. 

He  is  a  scholar,  if  a  man  may  trust 
The  liberal  voice  of  Fame  in  her  report. 


Myself  was  once  a  student,  and  indeed 
Fed  with  the  self-same  humor  he  is  now. 

Ben  Jonson  :  Every  Man  in  his  Humor. 

The  two  sisters  pursued  their  walk  along  a  scene  which 
might  well  be  favored  by  their  selection.  No  sooner  had  they 
crossed  the  stile  than  the  village  seemed  vanished  into  earth, 
so  quiet,  so  lonely,  so  far  from  the  evidence  of  life  was  the 
landscape  through  which  they  passed.  On  their  right  sloped 
a  green  and  silent  hill,  shutting  out  all  view  beyond  itself,  save 
the  deepening  and  twilight  sky ;  to  the  left,  and  immediately 
along  their  road,  lay  fragments  of  stone  covered  with  moss,  or 
shadowed  by  wild  shrubs  that  here  and  there  gathered  into 
copses,  or  breaking  abruptly  away  from  the  rich  sod,  left  fre- 
quent spaces  through  which  you  caught  long  vistas  of  forest- 
land,  or  the  brooklet  gliding  in  a  noisy  and  rocky  course  and 
breaking  into  a  thousand  tiny  waterfalls  or  mimic  eddies.  So 
secluded  was  the  scene,  and  so  unwitnessing  of  cultivation, 
that  you  would  not  have  believed  that  a  human  habitation 


22  EUGENE   ARAM. 

could  be  at  hand ;  and  this  air  of  perfect  solitude  and  quiet 
gave  an  additional  charm  to  the  spot. 

"  But  1  assure  you,"  said  Ellinor,  earnestly  continuing  a  con- 
versation they  had  begun,  "  I  assure  you  I  was  not  mistaken : 
I  saw  it  as  plainly  as  I  see  you." 

"  What,  in  the  breast-pocket  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  as  he  drew  out  his  handkerchief  I  saw  the  barrel  of 
the  pistol  quite  distinctly." 

"  Indeed !  I  think  we  had  better  tell  my  father  as  soon  as 
we  get  home,  —  it  may  be  as  well  to  be  on  our  guard ;  though 
robbery,  I  believe,  has  not  been  heard  of  in  Grassdale  for 
these  twenty  years." 

"  Yet  for  what  purpose,  save  that  of  evil,  could  he  in  these 
peaceable  times  and  this  peaceable  country  carry  firearms 
about  him  ?  And  what  a  countenance !  Did  you  note  the 
shy  and  yet  ferocious  eye,  like  that  of  some  animal  that  longs 
yet  fears  to  spring  upon  you  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  word,  Ellinor,"  said  Madeline,  smiling,  "  you  are 
not  very  merciful  to  strangers.  After  all,  the  man  might  have 
provided  himself  with  the  pistol  which  you  saw  as  a  natural 
precaution.  Reflect  that,  as  a  stranger,  he  may  well  not  know 
how  safe  this  district  usually  is,  and  he  may  have  come  from 
London,  in  the  neighborhood  of  which,  they  say,  robberies 
have  been  frequent  of  late.  As  to  his  looks,  they  are,  I  own, 
unpardonable ;  for  so  much  ugliness  there  can  be  no  excuse. 
Had  the  man  been  as  handsome  as  our  cousin  Walter,  you 
would  not,  perhaps,  have  been  so  uncharitable  in  your  fears 
at  the  pistol." 

"Nonsense,  Madeline,"  said  Ellinor,  blushing  and  turning 
away  her  face :  there  was  a  moment's  pause,  which  the 
younger  sister  broke. 

"We  do  not  seem,"  said  she,  "to  make  much  progress  in 
the  friendship  of  our  singular  neighbor.  I  never  knew  my 
father  court  any  one  so  much  as  he  has  courted  Mr.  Aram ; 
and  yet  you  see  how  seldom  he  calls  upon  us,  —  nay,  I  often 
think  that  he  seeks  to  shun  us.  No  great  compliment  to  our 
attractions,  Madeline ! " 

"I  regret  his  want  of  sociability  for  his  own  sake,"  said 


EUGENE   ARAM.  23 

Madeline,  "  for  lie  seems  melancholy  as  well  as  thoughtful ; 
and  he  leads  so  secluded  a  life  that  I  cannot  but  think  my 
father's  conversation  and  society,  if  he  would  but  encourage 
it,  might  afford  some  relief  to  his  solitude." 

"And  he  always  seems,"  observed  EUinor,  "to  take  pleasure 
in  my  father's  conversation,  —  as  who  would  not  ?  How  his 
countenance  lights  up  when  he  converses  !  It  is  a  pleasure  to 
watch  it.     I  think  him  positively  handsome  when  he  speaks." 

"  Oh,  more  than  handsome !  "  said  Madeline,  with  enthusi- 
asm, —  "  witli  that  high  pale  brow,  and  those  deep,  unfathom- 
able eyes." 

Ellinor  smiled,  and  it  was  now  Madeline's  turn  to  blush. 

"Well,"  said  the  former,  "there  is  something  about  him 
that  fills  one  with  an  indescribable  interest ;  and  his  manner, 
if  cold  at  times,  is  yet  always  so  gentle." 

"And  to  hear  him  converse,"  said  Madeline,  "it  is  like 
music.  His  thoughts,  his  very  words,  seem  so  different  from 
the  language  and  ideas  of  others.  What  a  pity  that  he  should 
ever  be  silent !  " 

"  There  is  one  peculiarity  about  his  gloom,  —  it  never  in- 
spires one  with  distrust,"  said  Ellinor;  "if  I  had  observed 
him  in  the  same  circumstances  as  that  ill-omened  traveller,  I 
should  have  had  no  apprehension." 

"  Ah  !  that  traveller  still  runs  in  your  head.  If  we  were  to 
meet  him  on  this  spot ! " 

"  Heaven  forbid ! "  cried  Ellinor,  turning  hastily  round  in 
alarm ;  and  lo !  as  if  her  sister  had  been  a  prophet,  she  saw 
the  very  person  in  question,  at  some  little  distance  behind 
them,  and  walking  on  with  rapid  strides. 

She  uttered  a  faint  shriek  of  surprise  and  terror,  and  Made- 
line, looking  back  at  the  sound,  immediately  participated  in 
her  alarm.  The  spot  looked  so  desolate  and  lonely,  and  the 
imagination  of  both  had  been  already  so  worked  upon  by 
Ellinor's  fears  and  their  conjectures  respecting  the  ill-boding 
weapon  she  had  witnessed,  that  a  thousand  apprehensions  of 
outrage  and  murder  crowded  at  once  upon  the  minds  of  the 
two  sisters.  Without,  however,  giving  vent  in  words  to  their 
alarm,  they  quickened  their  pace  involuntarily,  every  moment 


24  EUGENE  ARAM. 

stealing  a  glance  behind,  to  watcli  the  progress  of  the  sns 
pected  robber.  They  thought  that  he  also  seemed  to  acceler- 
ate his  movements ;  and  this  observation  increased  their  ter- 
ror, and  would  aj)pear,  indeed,  to  give  it  some  more  rational 
ground.  At  length,  as  by  a  sudden  turn  of  the  road,  they 
lost  sight  of  the  dreaded  stranger,  their  alarm  suggested  to 
them  but  one  resolution,  and  they  fairly  fled  on  as  fast  as  the 
fear  which  actuated  them  would  allow.  The  nearest,  and 
indeed  the  only,  house  in  that  direction  was  Aram's ;  but  they 
both  imagined  if  they  could  come  within  sight  of  that,  they 
should  be  safe.  They  looked  back  at  every  interval ;  now 
they  did  not  see  their  fancied  pursuer,  —  now  he  emerged 
again  into  view ;  now  —  yes  —  he  also  was  running.  "  Faster, 
faster,  Madeline,  for  God's  sake  !  He  is  gaining  upon  us ! " 
cried  Ellinor.  The  path  grew  more  wild,  and  the  trees  more 
thick  and  frequent:  at  every  cluster  that  marked  their  pro- 
gress they  saw  the  stranger  closer  and  closer;  at  length  a 
sudden  break,  a  sudden  turn  in  the  landscape,  —  a  broad  plain 
burst  upon  them,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  the  student's  solitary 
abode ! 

"  Thank  Heaven,  we  are  safe ! "  cried  Madeline.  She 
turned  once  more  to  look  for  the  stranger ;  in  so  doing,  her 
foot  struck  against  a  fragment  of  stone,  and  she  fell  with 
great  violence  to  the  ground.  She  endeavored  to  rise,  but 
found  herself,  at  first,  unable  to  stir  from  the  spot.  In  this 
state,  however,  she  looked  back,  and  saw  the  traveller  at 
some  little  distance.  But  he  also  halted,  and  after  a  moment's 
seeming  deliberation  turned  aside,  and  was  lost  among  the 
bushes. 

With  great  difficulty  Ellinor  now  assisted  Madeline  to  rise ; 
her  ankle  was  violently  sprained,  and  she  could  not  put  her 
foot  to  the  ground.  But  though  she  had  evinced  so  much 
dread  at  the  apparition  of  the  stranger,  she  now  testified  an 
almost  equal  degree  of  fortitude  in  bearing  pain.  "  I  am  not 
much  hurt,  Ellinor,"  she  said,  faintly  smiling,  to  encourage 
her  sister,  who  supported  her  in  speechless  alarm  ;  "  but  what 
is  to  be  done  ?  I  cannot  use  this  foot.  How  shall  we  get 
home  ?  " 


EUGENE  ARAM.  25 

"  But  are  you  sure  you  are  not  much  hurt  ? "  said  poor 
EUinor,  almost  crying.  "  Lean  on  me,  - —  heavier,  pray !  Only 
try  and  reach  the  house,  and  we  can  then  stay  there  till  Mr, 
Aram  sends  home  for  the  carriage," 

"  But  what  will  he  think  ?  How  strange  it  will  seem !  " 
said  Madeline,  the  color  once  more  visiting  her  cheek,  which  a 
moment  since  had  been  blanched  as  pale  as  death. 

''  Is  this  a  time  for  scruples  and  ceremony  ?  "  said  Ellinor. 
"  Come  !  I  entreat  you,  come ;  if  you  linger  thus,  the  man  may 
take  courage  and  attack  us  yet.  There  !  that 's  right !  Is  the 
pain  very  great  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  mind  the  pain,"  murmured  Madeline ;  "  but  if  he 
should  think  we  intrude  ?  His  habits  are  so  reserved,  so 
secluded ;  indeed  I  fear  —  " 

"  Intrude  !  "  interrupted  Ellinor.  "  Do  you  think  so  ill  of 
him  ?  Do  you  suppose  that,  hermit  as  he  is,  he  has  lost  com- 
mon humanity  ?  But  lean  more  on  me,  dearest ;  you  do  not 
know  how  strong  I  am ! " 

Thus  alternately  chiding,  caressing,  and  encouraging  her 
sister,  Ellinor  led  on  the  sufferer  till  they  had  crossed  the 
plain,  though  with  slowness  and  labor,  and  stood  before  the 
porch  of  the  recluse's  house.  They  had  looked  back  from 
time  to  time,  but  the  cause  of  so  much  alarm  appeared  no 
more.  This  they  deemed  a  sufficient  evidence  of  the  justice 
of  their  apprehensions. 

Madeline  even  now  would  fain  have  detained  her  sister's 
hand  from  the  bell  that  hung  without  the  porch,  half  im- 
bedded in  ivy;  but  Ellinor,  out  of  patience  —  as  she  well 
might  be  —  with  her  sister's  unseasonable  prudery,  refused 
any  longer  delay.  So  singularly  still  and  solitary  was  the 
plain  around  the  house  that  the  sound  of  the  bell  breaking 
the  silence  had  in  it  something  startling,  and  appeared,  in  its 
sudden  and  shrill  voice,  a  profanation  of  the  deep  tranquillity 
of  the  spot.  They  did  not  wait  long  ;  a  step  was  heard  with- 
in, the  door  was  slowly  unbarred,  and  the  student  himself 
stood  before  them. 

He  was  a  man  who  might  perhaps  have  numbered  some  five 
and  thirty  years ;  but  at  a  hasty  glance  he  would  have  seemed 


26  EUGENE  ARAM. 

considerably  younger.  He  was  above  the  ordinary  stature ; 
though  a  gentle,  and  not  ungraceful,  bend  in  the  neck,  rather 
than  the  shoulders,  somewhat  curtailed  his  proper  advantages  of 
height.  His  frame  was  thin  and  slender,  but  well  knit  and  fair 
proportioned.  Nature  had  originally  cast  his  form  in  an 
athletic  mould;  but  sedentary  habits  and  the  wear  of  mind 
seemed  somewhat  to  have  impaired  her  gifts.  His  cheek  was 
pale  and  delicate ;  yet  it  was  rather  the  delicacy  of  thought 
than  of  weak  health.  His  hair,  which  was  long,  and  of  a  rich 
and  deep  brown,  was  thrown  back  from  his  face  and  temples, 
and  left  a  broad,  high,  majestic  forehead  utterly  unrelieved  and 
bare ;  and  on  the  brow  there  was  not  a  single  wrinkle,  —  it 
was  as  smooth  as  it  might  have  been  some  fifteen  years  ago. 
There  was  a  singular  calmness  and,  so  to  speak,  profundity  of 
thought  eloquent  upon  its  clear  expanse,  which  suggested  the 
idea  of  one  who  had  passed  his  life  rather  in  contemplation 
than  emotion.  It  was  a  face  that  a  physiognomist  would 
have  loved  to  look  upon,  so  much  did  it  speak  both  of  the  re- 
finement and  the  dignity  of  intellect. 

Such  was  the  person  —  if  pictures  convey  a  faithful  resem- 
blance —  of  a  man  certainly  among  the  most  eminent  in  his  day 
for  various  and  profound  learning,  and  especially  for  a  genius 
wholly  self-taught,  yet  never  contented  to  repose  upon  the 
wonderful  stores  it  had  laboriously  accumulated. 

He  now  stood  before  the  two  girls  silent  and  evidently  sur- 
prised; and  it  would  have  been  no  unworthy  subject  for  a  pic- 
ture, —  that  ivied  porch ;  that  still  spot ;  Madeline's  reclining 
and  subdued  form  and  downcast  eyes  ;  the  eager  face  of  Ellinor, 
about  to  narrate  the  nature  and  cause  of  their  intrusion ; 
and  the  pale  student  himself,  thus  suddenly  aroused  from 
his  solitary  meditations,  and  converted  into  the  protector  of 
beauty. 

No  sooner  did  Aram  learn  from  Ellinor  the  outline  of  their 
story  and  Madeline's  accident  than  his  countenance  and  manner 
testified  the  liveliest  and  most  eager  interest.  Madeline  was 
inexpressibly  touched  and  surprised  at  the  kindly  and  respect- 
ful earnestness  with  which  this  recluse  scholar,  usually  so 
cold  and  abstracted  in  mood,  assisted  and  led  her  into  the 


EUGENE  ARAM.  27 

house,  the  sympathy  he  expressed  for  her  pain,  the  sincerity 
of  his  tone,  the  compassion  of  his  eyes ;  and  as  those  dark  and, 
to  use  her  own  thought,  unfathomable  orbs  bent  admiringly 
and  yet  so  gently  upon  her,  Madeline,  even  in  spite  of  her 
pain,  felt  an  indescribable,  a  delicious  thrill  at  her  heart 
which  in  the  presence  of  no  one  else  had  she  ever  experienced 
before. 

Aram  now  summoned  the  only  domestic  his  house  possessed, 
who  appeared  in  the  form  of  an  old  woman  whom  he  seemed  to 
have  selected  from  the  whole  neighborhood  as  the  person 
most  in  keeping  with  the  rigid  seclusion  he  preserved.  She 
was  exceedingly  deaf,  and  was  a  proverb  in  the  village  for  her 
extreme  taciturnity.  Poor  old  Margaret !  she  was  a  widow, 
and  had  lost  ten  children  by  early  deaths.  There  was  a  time 
when  her  gayety  had  been  as  noticeable  as  her  reserve  was  now. 
In  spite  of  her  infirmity,  she  was  not  slow  in  comprehending 
the  accident  Madeline  had  met  with ;  and  she  busied  herself 
with  a  promptness  which  showed  that  her  misfortunes  had  not 
deadened  her  natural  kindness  of  disposition,  in  preparing 
fomentations  and  bandages  for  the  wounded  foot. 

Meanwhile  Aram  undertook  to  seek  the  manor-house  and 
bring  back  the  old  family  coach,  which  had  dozed  inactively 
in  its  shelter  for  the  last  six  months,  to  convey  the  sufferer 
home. 

"No,  Mr.  Aram,"  said  Madeline,  coloring;  "pray  do  not  go 
yourself.  Consider,  the  man  may  still  be  loitering  on  the 
road.  He  is  armed ;  good  heavens !  if  he  should  meet 
you ! " 

"  Fear  not,  madam,"  said  Aram,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  /  also 
keep  arms,  even  in  this  obscure  and  safe  retreat;  and  to 
satisfy  you,  I  will  not  neglect  to  carry  them  with  me." 

As  he  spoke,  he  took  from  the  wainscot,  where  they  hung,  a 
brace  of  large  horse-pistols,  slung  them  round  him  by  a  leather 
belt,  and  flinging  over  his  person,  to  conceal  weapons  so  alarm- 
ing to  any  less  dangerous  passenger  he  might  encounter,  the 
long  cloak  then  usually  worn  in  inclement  seasons,  as  an  outer 
garment,  he  turned  to  depart. 

"  But  are  they  loaded  ?  "  asked  EUinor. 


28  EUGENE  ARAM. 

Aram  answered  briefly  in  the  affirmative.  It  was  somewhat 
singular,  but  the  sisters  did  not  then  remark  it,  that  a  man  so 
peaceable  in  his  pursuits,  and  seemingly  possessed  of  no  valu- 
ables that  could  tempt  cupidity,  should  in  that  spot,  where 
crime  was  never  heard  of,  use  such  habitual  precaution. 

When  the  door  closed  upon  him,  and  while  tlie  old  woman 
relieved  the  anguish  of  the  sprain  with  a  light  hand  and 
soothing  lotions,  which  she  had  shown  some  skill  in  preparing, 
Madeline  cast  glances  of  interest  and  curiosity  around  the 
apartment  into  which  she  had  had  the  rare  good  fortune  to 
obtain  admittance. 

The  house  had  belonged  to  a  family  of  some  note  whose 
heirs  had  outstripped  their  fortunes.  It  had  been  long  de- 
serted and  uninhabited ;  and  when  Aram  settled  in  those  parts, 
the  proprietor  was  too  glad  to  get  rid  of  the  encumbrance  of 
an  empty  house  at  a  nominal  rent.  The  solitude  of  the  place 
had  been  the  main  attraction  to  Aram ;  and  as  he  possessed 
what  would  be  considered  a  very  extensive  assortment  of 
books,  even  for  a  library  of  these  days,  he  required  a  larger 
apartment  than  he  would  have  been  able  to  obtain  in  an  abode 
more  compact  and  more  suitable  to  his  fortunes  and  mode  of 
living. 

The  room  in  which  the  sisters  now  found  themselves  was 
the  most  spacious  in  the  house,  and  was  indeed  of  considerable 
dimensions.  It  contained  in  front  one  large  window,  jutting 
from  the  wall.  Opposite  was  an  antique  and  high  mantel- 
piece of  black  oak.  The  rest  of  the  room  was  walled  from  the 
floor  to  the  roof  with  books  ;  volumes  of  all  languages,  and  it 
might  even  be  said,  without  much  exaggeration,  upon  all 
sciences,  were  strewed  around,  on  the  chairs,  the  tables,  or  the 
floor.  By  the  window  stood  the  student's  desk  and  a  large  old- 
fashioned  oak  chair.  A  few  papers,  filled  with  astronomical 
calculations,  lay  on  the  desk,  and  these  were  all  the  witnesses 
of  the  result  of  study.  Indeed,  Aram  does  not  appear  to  have 
been  a  man  much  inclined  to  reproduce  the  learning  he  ac- 
quired ;  what  he  wrote  was  in  very  small  proportion  to  what 
he  had  read. 

So  high  and  grave  was  the  scholar's  reputation  that  the 


EUGENE  ARAM.  29 

retreat  and  sanctum  of  so  many  learned  hours  would  have 
been  interesting,  even  to  one  who  could  not  appreciate  learning ; 
but  to  Madeline,  with  her  peculiar  disposition  and  traits  of 
mind,  we  may  readily  conceive  that  the  room  presented  a  pow- 
erful and  pleasing  charm.  As  the  elder  sister  looked  round  in 
silence,  Ellinor  attempted  to  draw  the  old  woman  into  conver- 
sation. She  would  fain  have  elicited  some  particulars  of  the 
habits  and  daily  life  of  the  recluse  ;  but  the  deafness  of  their 
attendant  was  so  obstinate  and  hopeless  that  she  was  forced  to 
give  up  the  attempt  in  despair.  "  I  fear,"  said  she  at  last,  her 
good-nature  so  far  overcome  by  impatience  as  not  to  forbid  a 
slight  yawn,  "  I  fear  we  shall  have  a  dull  time  of  it  till  my 
father  arrives.  Just  consider !  the  fat  black  mares,  never  too 
fast,  can  only  creep  along  that  broken  path, — for  road  there 
is  none  ;  it  will  be  quite  night  before  the  coach  arrives." 

"  I  am  sorry,  dear  Ellinor,  my  awkwardness  should  occasion 
you  so  stupid  an  evening." 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Ellinor,  throwing  her  arms  around  her  sister's 
neck,  "  it  is  not  for  myself  I  spoke ;  and,  indeed,  I  am  de- 
lighted to  think  we  have  got  into  this  wizard's  den  and  seen 
the  instruments  of  his  art.  But  I  do  so  trust  Mr.  Aram  will 
not  meet  that  terrible  man." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  prouder  Madeline,  "  he  is  armed,  and  it  is 
but  one  man.  I  feel  too  high  a  respect  for  him  to  allow  my- 
self much  fear." 

"  But  these  bookmen  are  not  often  heroes,"  remarked  Ellinor, 
laughing. 

"  For  shame,"  said  Madeline,  the  color  mounting  to  her  fore- 
head. "Do  you  not  remember  how,  last  summer,  Eugene 
Aram  rescued  Dame  Grenfeld's  child  from  the  bull,  though  at 
the  literal  peril  of  his  own  life  ?  And  who  but  Eugene  Aram, 
when  the  floods  in  the  year  before  swept  along  the  low  lands 
by  Fairleigh,  went  day  after  day  to  rescue  the  persons,  or  even 
to  save  the  goods  of  those  poor  people,  —  at  a  time,  too,  when 
the  boldest  villagers  would  not  hazard  themselves  across  the 
waters  ?  But  bless  me,  Ellinor,  what  is  the  matter  ?  You  turn 
pale,  you  tremble !  " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Ellinor,  under  her  breath ;  and  putting  her 


30  EUGENE  ARAM. 

finger  to  her  mouth,  she  rose  and  stole  lightly  to  the  window. 
She  had  observed  the  figure  of  a  man  pass  by ;  and  now,  as  she 
gained  the  window,  she  saw  him  halt  by  the  porch,  and  recog- 
nized the  formidable  stranger.  Presently  the  bell  sounded, 
and  the  old  woman,  familiar  with  its  shrill  sound,  rose  from 
her  kneeling  position  beside  the  sufferer  to  attend  to  the  sum- 
mons. EUinor  sprang  forward  and  detained  her;  the  poor 
old  woman  stared  at  her  in  amazement,  wholly  unable  to  com- 
prehend her  abrupt  gestures  and  her  rapid  language.  It  was 
with  considerable  difficulty,  and  after  repeated  efforts,  that  she 
at  length  impressed  the  dulled  sense  of  the  crone  with  the 
nature  of  their  alarm  and  the  expediency  of  refusing  admit- 
tance to  the  stranger.  Meanwhile  the  bell  had  rung  again,  — 
again,  and  the  third  time,  with  a  prolonged  violence  which 
testified  the  impatience  of  the  applicant.  As  soon  as  the  good 
dame  had  satisfied  herself  as  to  Ellinor's  meaning,  she  could 
no  longer  be  accused  of  unreasonable  taciturnity ;  she  wrung 
her  hands,  and  poured  forth  a  volley  of  lamentations  and  fears 
which  effectually  relieved  Ellinor  from  the  dread  of  her  un- 
heeding the  admonition.  Satisfied  at  having  done  thus  much, 
Ellinor  now  herself  hastened  to  the  door,  and  secured  the  in- 
gress with  an  additional  bolt ;  and  then,  as  the  thought  flashed 
upon  her,  returned  to  the  old  woman,  and  made  her,  with  an 
easier  effort  than  before,  now  that  her  senses  were  sharpened 
by  fear,  comprehend  the  necessity  of  securing  the  back  entrance 
also.  Both  hastened  away  to  effect  this  precaution,  and  ]\Iade- 
line,  who  herself  desired  Ellinor  to  accompany  the  old  woman, 
was  left  alone.  She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  window  with  a 
strange  sentiment  of  dread  at  being  thus  left  in  so  helpless  a 
situation ;  and  though  a  door  of  no  ordinary  dimensions  and 
doubly  locked  interposed  between  herself  and  the  intruder,  she 
expected  in  breathless  terror,  every  instant,  to  see  the  form  of 
the  ruffian  burst  into  the  apartment.  As  she  thus  sat  and 
looked,  she  shudderingly  saw  the  man,  tired  perhaps  of  re- 
peating a  summons  so  ineffectual,  come  to  the  window  and 
look  pryingly  within.  Their  eyes  met ;  Madeline  had  not  the 
power  to  shriek.  Would  he  break  through  the  window  ?  That 
was  her  only  idea,  and  it  deprived  her  of  words,  almost  of 


EUGENE   ARAM.  31 

sense.  He  gazed  upon  her  evident  terror  for  a  moment  with 
a  grim  smile  of  contempt ;  he  then  knocked  at  the  window, 
and  his  voice  broke  harshly  on  a  silence  yet  more  dreadful 
than  the  interruption. 

"  Ho,  ho !  so  there  is  some  life  stirring.  I  beg  pardon, 
madame,  is  Mr.  Aram  —  Eugene  Aram  —  within  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Madeline,  faintly;  and  then,  sensible  that  her 
voice  did  not  reach  him,  she  reiterated  the  answer  in  a  louder 
tone.  The  man,  as  if  satisfied,  made  a  rude  inclination  of  his 
head,  and  withdrew  from  the  window.  Ellinor  now  returned, 
and  with  difficulty  JMadeline  found  words  to  explain  to  her 
what  had  passed.  It  will  be  conceived  that  the  two  young 
ladies  waited  for  the  arrival  of  their  father  with  no  lukewarm 
expectation.  The  stranger,  however,  appeared  no  more ;  and 
in  about  an  hour,  to  their  inexpressible  joy,  they  heard  the 
rumbling  sound  of  the  old  coach  as  it  rolled  towards  the 
house.     This  time  there  was  no  delay  in  unbarring  the  door. 


CHAPTER  lY. 

THE   SOLILOQUY   AND    THE    CHARACTER   OF    A   RECLUSE. 

THE    INTERRUPTION. 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 

Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear, 

Or  thrice  great  Hermes,  and  unsphere 

The  spirit  of  Plato.  —  Milton  ;  //  Penseroso. 

As  Aram  assisted  the  beautiful  Madeline  into  the  carriage ; 
as  he  listened  to  her  sweet  voice ;  as  he  marked  the  grateful 
expression  of  her  soft  eyes;  as  he  felt  the  slight  yet  warm 
pressure  of  her  fairy  hand,  —  that  vague  sensation  of  delight 
which  preludes  love,  for  the  first  time  in  his  sterile  and  soli- 
tary life,  agitated  his  breast.  Lester  held  out  his  hand  to  him 
with  a  frank  cordiality  which  the  scholar  could  not  resist. 


32  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"  Do  not  let  us  be  strangers,  Mr.  Aram,"  said  he,  warinly. 
"  It  is  not  often  that  I  press  for  companionship  out  of  my  own 
circle ;  but  in  your  company  I  should  find  pleasure  as  well  as 
instruction.  Let  us  break  the  ice  boldly,  and  at  once.  Come 
and  dine  with  me  to-morrow,  and  Ellinor  shall  sing  to  us  in 
the  evening." 

The  excuse  died  upon  Aram's  lips.  Another  glance  at  Made- 
line conquered  the  remains  of  his  reserve,  —  he  accepted  the 
invitation;  and  he  could  not  but  mark,  with  an  unfamiliar 
emotion  of  the  heart,  that  the  eyes  of  Madeline  sparkled  as 
he  did  so. 

With  an  abstracted  air,  and  arms  folded  across  his  breast, 
he  gazed  after  the  carriage  till  the  winding  of  the  valley 
snatched  it  from  his  view.  He  then,  waking  from  his  revery 
with  a  start,  turned  into  the  house,  and  carefully  closing  and 
barring  the  door,  mounted  the  slow  steps  to  the  lofty  chamber 
with  which,  the  better  to  indulge  his  astronomical  researches, 
he  had  crested  his  lonely  abode. 

It  was  now  night.  The  heavens  broadened  round  him  in  all 
the  loving  yet  august  tranquillity  of  the  season  and  the  hour  ; 
the  stars  bathed  the  living  atmosphere  with  a  solemn  light; 
and  above,  about,  around,  — 

"  The  linly  time  was  quiet  as  a  nun, 
Breathless  with  adoration." 

He  looked  forth  upon  the  deep  and  ineffable  stillness  of  the 
night,  and  indulged  the  reflections  that  it  suggested. 

"  Ye  mystic  lights,"  said  he,  soliloquizing,  ''  worlds  upon 
worlds,  infinite,  incalculable,  bright  defiers  of  rest  and  change, 
rolling  forever  above  our  petty  sea  of  mortality  as,  wave  after 
wave,  we  fret  forth  our  little  life  and  sink  into  the  black  abyss, 

—  can  we  look  upon  you,  note  your  appointed  order  and  your 
unvarying  courses,  and  not  feel  that  we  are  indeed  the  poorest 
puppets  of  an  all-pervading  and  resistless  destiny  ?  Shall  we 
see  throughout  creation  each  marvel  fulfilling  its  pre-ordered 
fate,  —  no  wandering  from  its  orbit,  no  variation  in  its  seasons, 

—  and  yet  imagine  that  the  Arch-ordainer  will  hold  back  the 
tides  He  has  sent  from  their  unseen  source,  at  our  miserable 


EUGENE  ARAM.  33 

bidding  ?  Shall  we  think  that  our  prayers  can  avert  a  doom 
woven  with  the  skein  of  events  ?  To  change  a  particle  of  our 
fate  might  change  the  destiny  of  millions.  Shall  the  link  for- 
sake the  chain,  and  yet  the  chain  be  unbroken  ?  Away,  then, 
with  our  vague  repinings  and  our  blind  demands  !  All  must 
walk  onward  to  their  goal ;  be  he  the  wisest  who  looks  not  one 
step  behind.  The  colors  of  our  existence  were  doomed  before 
our  birth,  —  our  sorrows  and  our  crimes  ;  millions  of  ages 
back,  when  this  hoary  earth  was  peopled  by  other  kinds,  yea, 
ere  its  atoms  had  formed  one  layer  of  its  present  soil,  the 
eternal  and  all-seeing  Ruler  of  the  universe,  Destiny  or 
God,  had  here  fixed  the  moment  of  our  birth  and  the  limits 
of  our  career.  What,  then,  is  crime  ?  Fate  !  What  life  ? 
Submission ! " 

Such  were  the  strange  and  dark  thoughts  which,  too  familiar 
to  his  musings,  now  obtruded  their  mournful  dogmas  on  his 
mind.  He  sought  a  fairer  subject  for  meditation,  and  Madeline 
Lester  rose  before  him. 

Eugene  Aram  was  a  man  whose  whole  life  seemed  to  have 
been  one  sacrifice  to  knowledge.  What  is  termed  "  pleasure  " 
had  no  attraction  for  him.  From  the  mature  manhood  at 
which  he  had  arrived,  he  looked  back  along  his  youth,  and 
recognized  no  youthful  folly.  Love  he  had  hitherto  regarded 
with  a  cold  though  not  an  incurious  eye;  intemperance  had 
never  lured  him  to  a  momentary  self-abandonment.  Even  the 
innocent  relaxations  with  which  the  austerest  minds  relieve 
their  accustomed  toils  had  had  no  power  to  draw  him  from  his 
beloved  researches.  The  delight  monstrari  dlgito,  the  gratifica- 
tion of  triumphant  wisdom,  the  whispers  of  an  elevated  vanity, 
existed  not  for  his  self-dependent  and  solitary  heart.  He  was 
one  of  those  earnest  and  high-wrought  enthusiasts  Avho  now 
are  almost  extinct  upon  earth,  and  whom  Romance  has  not 
hitherto  attempted  to  portray,  —  men  not  uncommon  in  the 
last  century,  who  were  devoted  to  knowledge,  yet  disdainful 
of  its  fame ;  who  lived  for  nothing  else  than  to  learn.  From 
store  to  store,  from  treasure  to  treasure,  they  proceeded  in 
exulting  labor,  and  having  accumulated  all,  they  bestowed 
nought;  they  were  the  arch-misers  of  the  wealth  of  letters. 

3 


34  EUGENE  ARAM. 

Wrapped  in  obscurity,  in  some  sheltered  nook  remote  from 
the  great  stir  of  men,  they  passed  a  life  at  once  unprofitable 
and  glorious  ;  the  least  part  of  what  they  ransacked  would 
appall  the  industry  of  a  modern  student,  yet  the  most  super- 
ficial of  modern  students  might  effect  more  for  mankind.  They 
lived  among  oracles,  but  they  gave  none  forth.  And  yet,  even 
in  this  very  barrenness  there  seems  something  high ;  it  was  a 
rare  and  great  spectacle,  —  men  living  aloof  from  the  roar  and 
strife  of  the  passions  that  raged  below,  devoting  themselves  to 
the  knowledge  which  is  our  purification  and  our  immortality  on 
earth,  and  yet  deaf  and  blind  to  the  allurements  of  the  van- 
ity which  generally  accompanies  research  ;  refusing  the  igno- 
rant homage  of  their  kind,  making  their  sublime  motive  their 
only  meed,  adoring  Wisdom  for  her  sole  sake,  and  set  apart 
in  the  populous  universe  like  those  remoter  stars  which 
interchange  no  light  with  earth,  gild  not  our  darkness  and 
color  not  our  air. 

From  his  youth  to  the  present  period,  Aram  had  dwelt  little 
in .  cities,  though  he  had  visited  many ;  yet  he  could  scarcely 
be  called  ignorant  of  mankind :  there  seems  something  intui- 
tive in  the  science  which  teaches  us  the  knowledge  of  our 
race.  Some  men  emerge  from  their  seclusion,  and  find  all  at 
once  a  power  to  dart  into  the  minds  and  drag  forth  the  mo- 
tives of  those  they  see  :  it  is  a  sort  of  second  sight,  born  with 
them,  not  acquired.  And  Aram,  it  may  be,  rendered  yet  more 
acute  by  his  profound  and  habitual  investigations  of  our  meta- 
physical frame,  never  quitted  his  solitude  to  mix  with  others 
without  penetrating  into  the  broad  traits  or  prevalent  infirmi- 
ties their  characters  possessed.  In  this,  indeed,  he  differed 
from  the  scholar  tribe,  and  even  in  abstraction  was  mechani- 
cally vigilant  and  observant.  Much  in  his  nature,  had  early 
circumstances  given  it  a  different  bias,  would  have  fitted  him 
for  worldly  superiority  and  command.  A  resistless  energy, 
an  unbroken  perseverance,  a  profound  and  scheming  and  sub- 
tle thought,  a  genius  fertile  in  resources,  a  tongue  clothed 
with  eloquence,  —  all,  had  his  ambition  so  chosen,  might  have 
given  him  the  same  empire  over  the  physical  that  he  had 
now  attained  over  the  intellectual  world.     It  could  not  be  said 


EUGENE   ARAM.  35 

that  Aram  wanted  benevolence,  but  it  was  dashed  and  mixed 
with  a  certain  scorn :  the  benevolence  was  the  offspring  of 
his  nature  ;  the  scorn  seemed  the  result  of  his  pursuits.  He 
would  feed  the  birds  from  his  window  ;  he  would  tread  aside 
to  avoid  the  worm  on  his  path ;  were  one  of  his  own  tribe  in 
danger  he  would  save  him  at  the  hazard  of  his  life,  —  yet  in 
his  heart  he  despised  men,  and  believed  them  beyond  amelio- 
ration. Unlike  the  present  race  of  schoolmen,  who  incline 
to  the  consoling  hope  of  human  perfectibility,  he  saw  in  the 
gloomy  past  but  a  dark  prophecy  of  the  future.  As  Napoleon 
wept  over  one  wounded  soldier  in  the  field  of  battle,  yet 
ordered,  without  emotion,  thousands  to  a  certain  death,  so 
Aram  would  have  sacrificed  himself  for  an  individual,  but 
would  not  have  sacrificed  a  momentary  gratification  for  his 
race.  And  this  sentiment  towards  men,  at  once  of  high  dis- 
dain and  profound  despondency,  was  perhaps  the  cause  why  he 
rioted  in  indolence  upon  his  extraordinary  mental  wealth,  and 
could  not  be  persuaded  either  to  dazzle  the  world  or  to  serve 
it.  But  by  little  and  little  his  fame  had  broken  forth  from  the 
limits  with  which  he  would  have  walled  it.  A  man  who  had 
taught  himself,  under  singular  difficulties,  nearly  all  the  lan- 
guages of  the  civilized  earth;  the  profound  mathematician, 
the  elaborate  antiquarian,  the  abstruse  philologist,  uniting  with 
his  graver  lore  the  more  florid  accomplishments  of  science, 
from  the  scholastic  trifling  of  heraldry  to  the  gentle  learning 
of  herbs  and  flowers,  —  could  scarcely  hope  for  utter  obscurity 
in  that  day  when  all  intellectual  acquirement  was  held  in 
high  honor,  and  its  possessors  were  drawn  together  into  a 
sort  of  brotherhood  by  the  fellowship  of  their  pursuits.  And 
though  Aram  gave  little  or  nothing  to  the  world  himself, 
he  was  ever  willing  to  communicate  to  others  any  benefit  or 
honor  derivable  from  his  researches.  On  the  altar  of  science 
he  kindled  no  light,  but  the  fragrant  oil  in  the  lamps  of  his 
more  pious  brethren  was  largely  borrowed  from  his  stores. 
From  almost  every  college  in  Europe  came  to  his  obscure 
abode  letters  of  acknowledgment  or  inquiry,  and  few  foreign 
cultivators  of  learning  visited  this  country  without  seeking 
an   interview  with  Aram.     He   received  them  with   all   the 


36  EUGENE  ARAM. 

modesty  and  the  courtesy  that  characterized  his  demeanor;  but 
it  was  noticeable  that  he  never  allowed  these  interrviptions  to 
be  more  than  temporary.  He  proffered  no  hospitality,  and 
shrank  back  from  all  offers  of  friendship ;  the  interview 
lasted  its  hour,  and  was  seldom  renewed.  Patronage  was  not 
less  distasteful  to  him  than  sociality.  Some  occasional  visits 
and  condescensions  of  the  great  he  had  received  with  a  stern 
haughtiness  rather  than  his  habitual  subdued  urbanity.  The 
precise  amount  of  his  fortune  was  not  known ;  his  wants  were 
so  few  that  what  would  have  been  poverty  to  others  might 
easily  have  been  competence  to  him ;  and  the  only  evidence 
he  manifested  of  the  command  of  money,  was  in  his  extended 
and  various  library. 

He  had  been  now  about  two  years  settled  in  his  present 
retreat.  Unsocial  as  he  was,  every  one  in  the  neighborhood 
loved  him ;  even  the  reserve  of  a  man  so  eminent,  arising  as 
it  was  supposed  to  do  from  a  painful  modesty,  had  in  it  some- 
thing winning;  and  he  had  been  known  to  evince,  on  great 
occasions,  a  charity  and  a  courage  in  the  service  of  others 
which  removed  from  the  seclusion  of  his  habits  the  semblance 
of  misanthropy  and  of  avarice.  The  peasant  threw  kindly 
pity  into  his  respectful  greeting  as  in  his  homeward  walk  he 
encountered  the  pale  and  thoughtful  student,  with  the  folded 
arms  and  downcast  eyes  which  characterized  the  abstraction 
of  his  mood;  and  the  village  maiden,  as  she  courtesied  by 
him,  stole  a  glance  at  his  handsome  but  melancholy  counte- 
nance, and  told  her  sweetheart  she  was  certain  the  poor 
scholar  had  been  crossed  in  love  ! 

And  thus  passed  the  student's  life ;  perhaps  its  monotony 
and  dulness  required  less  compassion  than  they  received :  no 
man  can  judge  of  the  happiness  of  another.  As  the  moon 
plays  upon  the  waves,  and  seems  to  our  eyes  to  favor  with  a 
peculiar  beam  one  long  track  amidst  the  waters,  leaving  the 
rest  in  comparative  obscurity,  yet  all  the  while  she  is  no  nig- 
gard in  her  lustre,  for  though  the  rays  that  meet  not  our  eyes 
seem  to  us  as  though  they  were  not,  yet  she,  with  an  equal 
and  unfavoring  loveliness,  mirrors  herself  on  every  Avave,  — 
even  so,  perhaps,  happiness  falls  with  the  same  brightness 


EUGENE   ARAM.  37 

and  power  over  the  whole  expanse  of  life,  though  to  our 
limited  eyes  it  seems  only  to  rest  on  those  billows  from 
which  the  ray  is  reflected  on  our  sight. 

From  his  contemplations,  of  whatsoever  nature,  Aram  was 
now  aroused  by  a  loud  summons  at  the  door ;  the  clock  had 
gone  eleven.  Who  at  that  late  hour,  when  the  whole  village 
was  buried  in  sleep,  could  demand  admittance  ?  He  recol- 
lected that  Madeline  had  said  the  stranger  who  had  so 
alarmed  them  had  inquired  for  him ;  at  that  recollection  his 
cheek  suddenly  blanched.  But  again,  that  stranger  was  surely 
only  some  poor  traveller  who  had  heard  of  his  wonted  charity, 
and  had  called  to  solicit  relief ;  for  he  had  not  met  the  stran- 
ger on  the  road  to  Lester's  house,  and  he  had  naturally  set 
down  the  apprehensions  of  his  fair  visitants  to  mere  female 
timidity.  Who  could  this  be  ?  No  humble  wayfarer  would 
at  that  hour  crave  assistance,  —  some  disaster,  perhaps,  in  the 
village  !  From  his  lofty  chamber  he  looked  forth  and  saw 
the  stars  watch  quietly  over  the  scattered  cottages  and  the 
dark  foliage  that  slept  breathlessly  around.  All  Avas  still  as 
death,  but  it  seemed  the  stillness  of  innocence  and  security. 
Again,  the  bell  again !  He  thought  he  heard  his  name  shouted 
without ;  he  strode  once  or  twice  irresolutely  to  and  fro  the 
chamber ;  and  then  his  step  grew  firm  and  his  native  courage 
returned.  His  pistols  were  still  girded  round  him  ;  he  looked 
to  the  priming,  and  muttered  some  incoherent  words  ;  he  then 
descended  the  stairs  and  slowly  unbarred  the  door.  Without 
the  porch,  the  moonlight  full  upon  his  harsh  features  and 
sturdy  frame,  stood  the  ill-omened  traveller. 


38  EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER   V. 

A-  DINNER  AT  THE  SQUIRe's  HALL. A  CONVERSATION  BETWEEN 

TWO    RETIRED   MEN    WITH    DIFFERENT    OBJECTS    IN   RETIRE- 
MENT.  DISTURBANCE    FIRST    INTRODUCED    INTO    A    PEACE-' 

FUL    FAMILY.  f 

Can  he  not  be  sociable  ?  —  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

Subit  qaippe  etiam  ipsius  inertite  dulcedo  ;  et  invisa  primo  desidia  post- 
reino  amatur.^  —  Tacitus. 

How  use  doth  breed  a  habit  in  a  man ! 

This  shadowy  desert,  unfrequented  woods, 

I  better  brook  than  flourishing  peopled  towns.  —  Winter's  Tale. 

The  next  day,  faithful  to  his  appointment,  Aram  arrived  at 
Lester's.  The  good  squire  received  him  with  a  warm  cordial- 
ity, and  Madeline  with  a  blush  and  a  smile  that  ought  to  have 
been  more  grateful  to  him  than  acknowledgments.  She  was 
still  a  prisoner  to  the  sofa ;  but  in  compliment  to  Aram,  the 
sofa  was  wheeled  into  the  hall  where  they  dined,  so  that  she 
was  not  absent  from  the  repast.  It  was  a  pleasant  room,  that 
old  hall !  Though  it  was  summer,  more  for  cheerfulness  than 
warmth  the  log  burned  on  the  spacious  hearth ;  but  at  the 
same  time  the  latticed  windows  were  thrown  open,  and 
the  fresh  yet  sunny  air  stole  in,  rich  from  the  embrace  of 
the  woodbine  and  clematis,  which  clung  around  the  casement. 

A  few  old  pictures  were  panelled  in  the  open  wainscot,  and 
here  and  there  the  horns  of  the  mighty  stag  adorned  the 
walls,  and  united  with  the  cheeriness  of  comfort  associations 
of  that  of  enterprise.  The  good  old  board  was  crowded  with 
the  luxuries  meet  for  a  country  squire,  —  the  speckled  trout 
fresh  from  the  stream,  and  the  four-year-old  mutton  modestly 

^  "  Forasmuch  as  the  very  sweetness  of  idleness  stealthily  introduces  itself 
into  the  mind,  and  the  sloth,  which  was  at  first  hateful,  becomes  at  length 
beloved." 


EUGENE   ARAIH.  39 

disclaiming  its  own  excellent  merits,  by  affecting  the  shape 
and  assuming  the  adjuncts  of  venison.  Then  for  the  confec- 
tionery, —  it  was  worthy  of  Ellinor,  to  whom  that  department 
generally  fell ;  and  we  should  scarcely  be  surprised  to  find, 
though  we  venture  not  to  affirm,  that  its  delicate  fabrication 
owed  more  to  her  than  superintendence.  Then  the  ale,  and 
the  cider  with  rosemary  in  the  bowl,  were  incomparable  pota- 
tions ;  and  to  the  gooseberry  wine,  which  would  have  filled 
Mrs.  Primrose  with  envy,  was  added  the  more  generous 
warmth  of  port  which  in  the  squire's  younger  days  had  been 
the  talk  of  the  country,  and  which  had  now  lost  none  of  its 
attributes  save  "  the  original  brightness  "  of  its  color. 

But  (the  wine  excepted)  these  various  dainties  met  with 
slight  honor  from  their  abstemious  guest ;  and  —  for  though 
habitually  reserved  he  was  rarely  gloomy  —  they  remarked 
that  he  seemed  unusually  fitful  and  sombre  in  his  mood. 
Something  appeared  to  rest  upon  his  mind  from  which,  by 
the  excitement  of  wine  and  occasional  bursts  of  eloquence 
more  animated  than  ordinary,  he  seemed  striving  to  escape ; 
and  at  length  he  apparently  succeeded.  Naturally  enough 
the  conversation  turned  upon  the  curiosities  and  scenery  of 
the  country  round;  and  here  Aram  shone  with  a  peculiar 
grace.  Vividly  alive  to  the  influences  of  Nature,  and  min- 
utely acquainted  with  its  varieties,  he  invested  every  hill 
and  glade  to  which  remark  recurred  with  the  poetry  of  his 
descriptions  ;  and  from  his  research  he  gave  even  scenes  the 
most  familiar  a  charm  and  interest  which  had  been  strange 
to  them  till  then.  To  this  stream  some  romantic  legend  had 
once  attached  itself,  long  forgotten  and  now  revived ;  that 
moor,  so  barren  to  an  ordinary  eye,  was  yet  productive  of 
some  rare  and  curious  herb,  whose  properties  afforded  scope 
for  lively  description  ;  that  old  mound  was  yet  rife  in  attrac- 
tion to  one  versed  in  antiquities  and  able  to  explain  its  origin, 
and  from  such  explanation  deduce  a  thousand  classic  or  Celtic 
episodes. 

No  subject  was  so  homely  or  so  trite  but  the  knowledge  that 
had  neglected  nothing  was  able  to  render  it  luminous  and  new. 
And  as  he  spoke,  the  scholar's  countenance  brightened,  and 


40  EUGENE  ARAM. 

his  voice,  at  first  hesitating  and  low,  compelled  the  attention 
to  its  earnest  and  winning  music.  Lester  himself,  a  man  who 
in  his  long  retirement  had  not  forgotten  the  attractions  of 
intellectual  society,  nor  even  neglected  a  certain  cultivation 
of  intellectual  pursuits,  enjoyed  a  pleasure  that  he  had  not 
experienced  for  years.  The  gay  Ellinor  was  fascinated  into 
admiration ;  and  Madeline,  the  most  silent  of  the  group, 
drank  m  every  word,  unconscious  of  the  sweet  poison  she 
imbibed.  Walter  alone  seemed  not  carried  away  by  the  elo- 
quence of  their  guest.  He  preserved  an  unadmiring  and 
sullen  demeanor,  and  every  now  and  then  regarded  Aram 
with  looks  of  suspicion  and  dislike.  This  was  more  remark- 
able when  the  men  were  left  alone ;  and  Lester,  in  surprise 
and  anger,  darted  significant  and  admonitory  glances  towards 
his  nephew,  which  at  length  seemed  to  rouse  him  into  a  more 
hospitable  bearing.  As  the  cool  of  the  evening  now  came  on, 
Lester  proposed  to  Aram  to  enjoy  it  without,  previous  to 
returning  to  the  parlor,  to  which  the  ladies  had  retired. 
Walter  excused  himself  from  joining  them.  The  host  and 
the  guest  accordingly  strolled  forth  alone. 

"  Your  solitude,"  said  Lester,  smiling,  "  is  far  deeper  and 
less  broken  than  mine  :  do  you  never  find  it  irksome  ?  " 

"  Can  Humanity  be  at  all  times  contented  ? "  said  Aram. 
^'No  stream,  howsoever  secret  or  subterranean,  glides  on  in 
eternal  tranquillity." 

"  You  allow,  then,  that  you  feel  some  occasional  desire  for  a 
more  active  and  animated  life  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  answered  Aram  ;  "  that  is  scarcely  a  fair  corollary 
from  my  remark.  I  may  at  times  feel  the  weariness  of  exist- 
ence,—  the  tedium  vitce;  but  I  know  well  that  the  cause  is 
not  to  be  remedied  by  a  change  from  tranquillity  to  agitation. 
The  objects  of  the  great  world  are  to  be  pursued  only  by 
the  excitement  of  the  passions.  The  passions  are  at  once  our 
masters  and  our  deceivers :  they  urge  us  onward,  yet  present 
no  limit  to  our  progress.  The  farther  we  proceed,  the  more 
dim  and  shadowy  grows  the  goal.  It  is  impossible  for  a  man 
who  leads  the  life  of  the  world,  the  life  of  the  passions,  ever 
to  experience  content.     For  the  life  of  the  passions  is  that  of 


EUGENE  ARAM.  41 

a  perpetual  desire  ;  but  a  state  of  content  is  the  absence  of  all 
desire.  Thus  philosophy  has  become  another  name  for  mental 
quietude  ;  and  all  wisdom  points  to  a  life  of  intellectual  indif- 
ference as  the  happiest  which  earth  can  bestow." 

"This  may  be  true  enough,"  said  Lester,  reluctantly; 
"but  —  " 

"But  what?" 

"A  something  at  our  hearts  —  a  secret  voice,  an  involuntary 
impulse  —  rebels  against  it,  and  points  to  action,  —  action,  as 
the  true  sphere  of  man." 

A  slight  smile  curved  the  lip  of  the  student;  he  avoided, 
however,  the  argument,  and  remarked,  — 

"  Yet,  if  you  think  so,  the  world  lies  before  you :  why  not 
return  to  it  ?  " 

"Because  constant  habit  is  stronger  than  occasional  impulse; 
and  my  seclusion,  after  all,  has  its  sphere  of  action,  has  its 
object." 

"All  seclusion  has." 

"All  ?  Scarcely  so,  for  me,  I  have  my  object  of  interest 
in  my  children." 

"And  mine  is  in  my  books." 

"And  engaged  in  your  object,  does  not  the  whisper  of  Fame 
ever  animate  you  with  the  desire  to  go  forth  into  the  world 
and  receive  the  homage  that  would  await  you  ?  " 

"  Listen  to  me, "  replied  Aram.  "  When  I  was  a  boy  I  went 
once  to  a  theatre.  The  tragedy  of  'Hamlet'  was  performed, 
—  a  play  full  of  the  noblest  thoughts,  the  subtlest  morality. 
The  audience  listened  with  attention,  with  admiration,  with 
applause.  I  said  to  myself,  when  the  curtain  fell,  'It  must  be 
a  glorious  thing  to  obtain  this  empire  over  men's  intellects 
and  emotions.'  Bvit  now  an  Italian  mountebank  appeared  on 
the  stage, —  a  man  of  extraordinary  personal  strength  and 
sleight  of  hand.  He  performed  a  variety  of  juggling  tricks, 
and  distorted  his  body  into  a  thousand  surprising  and  unnat- 
ural postures.  The  audience  were  transported  beyond  them- 
selves; if  they  had  felt  delight  in  'Hamlet,'  they  glowed 
with  rapture  at  the  mountebank :  they  had  listened  with  at- 
tention to  the  lofty  thought,  but  they  were   snatched  from 


42  EUGENE   ARAM. 

themselves  by  the  marvel  of  the  strange  posture.  'Enough/ 
said  I ;  '  I  correct  my  former  notion.  Where  is  the  glory  of 
ruling  men's  minds  and  commanding  their  admiration,  when 
a  greater  enthusiasm  is  excited  by  mere  bodily  agility  than 
was  kindled  by  the  most  wonderful  emanations  of  a  genius 
little  less  than  divine  ? '  I  have  never  forgotten  the  impres- 
sion of  that  evening." 

Lester  attempted  to  combat  the  truth  of  the  illustration; 
and  thus  conversing,  they  passed  on  through  the  village  green, 
when  the  gaunt  form  of  Corporal  Bunting  arrested  their 
progress. 

"Beg  pardon,  squire,"  said  he,  with  a  military  salute; 
"beg  pardon,  your  honor,"  bowing  to  Aram.  "But  I  wanted 
to  speak  to  you,  squire,  'bout  the  rent  of  the  bit  cot  yonder: 
times  very  hard,  pay  scarce,  and  — " 

"You  desire  a  little  delay,  Bunting,  eh  ?  Well,  well,  we'll 
see  about  it;  look  up  at  the  Hall  to-morrow.  Mr.  Walter,  I 
know,  wants  to  consult  you  about  letting  the  water  from  the 
great  pond,  and  vou  must  give  us  your  opinion  of  the  new 
brewing." 

"Thank  your  honor,  thank  you;  much  obliged,  I  'm  sure.  I 
hope  your  honor  liked  the  trout  I  sent  up.  Beg  pardon.  Mas- 
ter Aram,  mayhap  you  would  condescend  to  accept  a  few  fish, 
now  and  then ;  they  're  very  fine  in  these  streams,  as  you 
probably  know.  If  you  please  to  let  me,  I  '11  send  some  up  by 
the  old  'oman  to-morrow, — that  is,  if  the  day  's  cloudy  a  bit." 

The  scholar  thanked  the  good  Bunting,  and  would  have  pro- 
ceeded onward;  but  the  corporal  was  in  a  familiar  mood. 

"Beg  pardon,  beg  pardon;  but  strange-looking  dog  here  last 
evening, —  asked  after  you;  said  you  were  old  friend  of  his; 
trotted  off  in  your  direction.  Hope  all  was  right,  master  ?  — 
augh ! " 

"  All  right  ! "  repeated  Aram,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  corpo- 
ral, Avho  had  concluded  his  speech  with  a  significant  wink, 
and  pausing  a  full  moment  before  he  continued ;  then,  as  if 
satisfied  with  his  survey,  he  added:  "Ay,  ay,  I  know  whom 
you  mean :  he  had  become  acquainted  with  me  some  years  ago. 
So  you  saw  him !     What  said  he  to  you  —  of  me  ?  " 


EUGENE   ARAM.  43 

"Augh!  little  enough,  Master  Aram;  he  seemed  to  think 
only  of  satisfying  his  own  appetite,  —  said  he  'd  been  a 
soldier." 

"A  soldier?  — true!" 

"Never  told  me  the  regiment,  though, —  shy!  Did  he  ever 
desert,  pray,  your  honor  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Aram,  turning  away;  "I  know 
little,  very  little,  about  him."  He  was  going  away,  but 
stopped  to  add:  "The  man  called  on  me  last  night  for  assist- 
ance; the  lateness  of  the  hour  a  little  alarmed  me.  I  gave 
him  what  I  could  afford,  and  he  has  now  proceeded  on  his 
journey." 

"Oh!  then  he  won't  take  up  his  quarters  hereabouts,  your 
honor  ?  "  said  the  corporal,  inquiringly. 

"No,  no;  good  evening." 

"  What !  this  singular  stranger,  who  so  frightened  my  poor 
girls,  is  really  known  to  you,"  said  Lester,  in  surprise. 
"  Pray,  is  he  as  formidable  as  he  seems  to  them  ?  " 

"Scarcely,"  said  Aram,  with  great  composure;  "he  has 
been  a  wild  roving  fellow  all  his  life,  but  —  but  there  is  lit- 
tle real  harm  in  him.  He  is  certainly  ill-favored  enough 
to —  "  Here,  interrupting  himself,  and  breaking  into  a  new 
sentence,  Aram  added:  "But  at  all  events  he  will  frighten 
your  daughters  no  more,  —  he  has  proceeded  on  his  journey 
northward.  And  now,  yonder  lies  my  way  home.  Good 
evening."  The  abruptness  of  this  farewell  did  indeed  take 
Lester  by  surprise. 

"  Why,  you  will  not  leave  me  yet  ?  The  young  ladies  ex- 
pect your  return  to  them  for  an  hour  or  so.  What  will  they 
think  of  such  desertion?  No,  no;  come  back,  my  good  friend, 
and  suffer  me  by  and  by  to  walk  some  part  of  the  way  home 
with  you." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Aram,  "I  must  leave  you  now.  As  to 
the  ladies,"  he  added,  with  a  faint  smile,  half  in  melancholy, 
half  in  scorn,  "  I  am  not  one  whom  they  could  miss.  Forgive 
me  if  I  seem  unceremonious.     Adieu !  " 

Lester  at  first  felt  a  little  offended ;  but  when  he  recalled 
the  peculiar  habits  of  the  scholar  he  saw  that  the  only  way 


44  EUGENE   ARAM. 

to  hope  for  a  continuance  of  that  society  which  had  so  pleased 
him  was  to  indulge  Aram  at  first  in  his  unsocial  inclinations, 
rather  than  annoy  him  by  a  troublesome  hospitality:  he  there- 
fore, without  further  discourse,  shook  hands  with  him,  and 
they  parted. 

When  Lester  regained  the  little  parlor  he  found  his  nephew 
sitting,  silent  and  discontented,  by  the  window,  Madeline 
had  taken  up  a  book,  and  Ellinor,  in  an  opposite  corner,  was 
plying  her  needle  with  an  air  of  earnestness  and  quiet  very 
unlike  her  usual  playful  and  cheerful  vivacity.  There  was 
evidently  a  cloud  over  the  group;  the  good  Lester  regarded 
them  with  a  searching,  yet  kindly  eye. 

"And  what  has  happened?"  said  he.  "Something  of 
mighty  import,  I  am  sure,  or  I  should  have  heard  my  pretty 
Ellinor's  merry  laugh  long  before  I  crossed  the  threshold," 

Ellinor  colored  and  sighed,  and  worked  faster  than  ever. 
Walter  threw  open  the  window  and  whistled  a  favorite  air 
quite  out  of  tune.  Lester  smiled,  and  seated  himself  by  his 
nephew, 

"Well,  Walter,"  said  he,  "I  feel,  for  the  first  time  these 
ten  years,  that  I  have  a  right  to  scold  you.  What  on  earth 
could  make  you  so  inhospitable  to  your  uncle's  guest  ?  You 
eyed  the  poor  student  as  if  you  wished  him  among  the  books 
of  Alexandria ! " 

"  I  would  he  were  burned  with  them !  "  answered  Walter, 
sharply.  "  He  seems  to  have  added  the  black  art  to  his  other 
accomplishments,  and  bewitched  my  fair  cousins  here  into  a 
forgetfulness  of  all  but  himself." 

"  Not  me  '  "  said  Ellinor,  eagerly,  and  looking  up. 

"No,  not  you,  that's  true  enough;  you  are  too  just,  too 
kind, —  it  is  a  pity  that  Madeline  is  not  more  like  you." 

"  My  dear  Walter, "  said  Madeline,  "  what  is  the  matter  ? 
You  accuse  me  of  what  ?  Being  attentive  to  a  man  whom  it 
is  impossible  to  hear  without  attention." 

"There!"  cried  Walter,  passionately,  "  you  confess  it.  And 
so  for  a  stranger,  —  a  cold,  vain,  pedantic  egotist,  you  can  shut 
your  ears  and  heart  to  those  who  have  known  and  loved  you 
all  your  life,  and  —  and  —  " 


EUGENE   ARAM.  45 

"Vain!  "  interrupted  Madeline,  unheeding  the  latter  part  of 
Walter's  address. 

"  Pedantic !  "  repeated  her  father. 

"Yes,  I  say  vain,  pedantic!  "  cried  Walter,  working  himself 
into  a  passion.  "  What  on  earth  but  the  love  of  display  could 
make  him  monopolize  the  whole  conversation?  What  but 
pedantry  could  make  him  bring  out  those  anecdotes  and  allu- 
sions and  descriptions,  or  whatever  you  call  them,  respecting 
every  old  wall  or  stupid  plant  in  the  country  ?  " 

"I  never  thought  you  guilty  of  meanness  before,"  said 
Lester,  gravely. 

"  Meanness ! " 

"  Yes ;  for  is  it  not  mean  to  be  jealous  of  superior  acquire- 
ments, instead  of  admiring  them?" 

"What  has  been  the  use  of  those  acquirements?  Has  he 
benefited  mankind  by  them?  Show  me  the  poet,  the  histo- 
rian, the  orator,  and  I  will  yield  to  none  of  you,  —  no,  not  to 
Madeline  herself,  in  homage  of  their  genius;  but  the  mere 
creature  of  books,  the  dry  and  sterile  collector  of  other  men's 
learning, — no,  no.  What  should  I  admire  in  such  a  machine 
of  literature,  except  a  waste  of  perseverance?  And  Madeline 
calls  him  handsome  too !  " 

At  this  sudden  turn  from  declamation  to  reproach,  Lester 
laughed  outright;  and  his  nephew,  in  high  auger,  rose  and 
left  the  room. 

"Who  could  have  thought  Walter  so  foolish?"  said 
Madeline. 

"Nay,"  observed  Ellinor,  gently,  "it  is  the  folly  of  a  kind 
heart,  after  all.  He  feels  sore  at  our  seeming  to  prefer  an- 
other—  I  mean  another's  conversation  —  to  his!  " 

Lester  turned  round  in  his  chair  and  regarded  with  a  serious 
look  the  faces  of  both  sisters. 

"  My  dear  Ellinor, "  said  he,  when  he  had  finished  his  sur- 
vey, "you  are  a  kind  girl, —  come  and  kiss  me!  " 


46  EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTEE   VI. 

the    behavior    of    the    student, a    summer    scene.  

Aram's    conversation    with    walter,    and    subsequent 
colloquy  with  himself. 

The  soft  season,  the  firmament  serene, 

The  loun  illuminate  air,  and  firth  amene 

The  silver  scalit  fishes  on  the  grete, 

O'er-thwart  clear  streams  sprinkillond  for  the  heat. 

Gawin  Douglas. 

Hia  subter 
Caecum  vulnus  habes  ;  sed  late  balteus  auro 
Prsetegit.i  —  Peesics. 

Several  days  elapsed  before  the  family  of  the  manor-house 
encountered  Aram  again.  The  old  woman  came  once  or  twice 
to  present  the  inquiries  of  her  master  as  to  Miss  Lester's  ac- 
cident, but  Aram  himself  did  not  appear.  This  want  of  in- 
terest certainly  offended  Madeline,  although  she  still  drew 
upon  herself  Walter's  displeasure  by  disputing  and  resenting 
the  unfavorable  strictures  on  the  scholar  in  which  that  young 
gentleman  delighted  to  indulge.  By  degrees,  however,  as  the 
days  passed  without  maturing  the  acquaintance  which  Walter 
had  disapproved,  the  youth  relaxed  in  his  attacks,  and  seemed 
to  yield  to  the  remonstrances  of  his  uncle.  Lester  had,  in- 
deed, conceived  an  especial  inclination  towards  the  recluse. 
Any  man  of  reflection  who  has  lived  for  some  time  alone, 
and  who  suddenly  meets  with  one  who  calls  forth  in  him, 
and  without  labor  or  contradiction,  the  thoughts  which  have 
sprung  up  in  his  solitude,  scarcely  felt  in  their  growth,  will 
comprehend  the  new  zest,  the  awakening,  as  it  were,  of  the 
mind,  which  Lester  found  in  the  conversation  of  Eugene  Aram. 
His  solitary  walk  (for  his  nephew  had  the  separate  pursuits 
of  youth)  appeared  to  him  more  dull  than  before,  and  he  longed 

1  "Yon  have  a  wound  deep  hidden  in  your  heart,  but  the  broad  belt  of 
gold  conceals  it." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  47 

to  renew  an  intercourse  which  had  given  to  the  monotony  of 
his  life  both  variety  and  relief.  He  called  twice  upon  Aram; 
but  the  student  was,  or  affected  to  be,  from  home,  and  an  in- 
vitation that  Lester  sent  him,  though  couched  in  friendly 
terms,  was,  but  with  great  semblance  of  kindness,  refused. 

"See,  Walter,"  said  Lester,  disconcerted,  as  he  finished 
reading  the  refusal, —  "see  what  your  rudeness  has  effected. 
I  am  quite  convinced  that  Aram  (evidently  a  man  of  suscepti- 
ble as  well  as  retired  mind)  observed  the  coldness  of  your 
manner  towards  him,  and  that  thus  you  have  deprived  me  of 
the  only  society  which,  in  this  wilderness  of  boors  and  sav- 
ages, gave  me  any  gratification." 

Walter  replied  apologetically,  but  his  uncle  turned  away 
with  a  greater  appearance  of  anger  than  his  placid  features 
were  wont  to  exhibit;  and  Walter,  cursing  the  innocent  cause 
of  his  uncle's  displeasure  towards  him,  took  up  his  fishing-rod 
and  went  out  alone,  in  no  happy  or  exhilarated  mood. 

It  was  waxing  towards  eve, — an  hour  especia?ly  lovely  in 
the  month  of  June,  and  not  without  reason  favored  by  the 
angler.  Walter  sauntered  across  the  rich  and  fragrant  fields, 
and  came  soon  into  a  sheltered  valley,  through  which  the 
brooklet  wound  its  shadowy  way.  Along  the  margin  the 
grass  sprang  up  long  and  matted,  and  profuse  with  a  thousand 
weeds  and  flowers, — the  children  of  the  teeming  June.  Here 
the  ivy-leafed  bell-flower,  and  not  far  from  it  the  common 
enchanter's  nightshade,  the  silver-weed,  and  the  water-aven; 
and  by  the  hedges,  that  now  and  then  n  eared  the-  water,  the 
gelder-rose  and  the  white  briony,  overrunning  the  thicket 
with  its  emerald  leaves  and  luxuriant  flowers.  And  here  and 
there,  silvering  the  bushes,  the  elder  offered  its  snowy  tribute 
to  the  summer.  All  the  insect  youth  were  abroad,  with  their 
bright  wings  and  glancing  motion;  and  from  the  lower  depths 
of  the  bushes  the  blackbird  darted  across,  or  higher  and  un- 
seen the  first  cuckoo  of  the  eve  began  its  continuous  and  mel- 
low note.  All  this  cheeriness  and  gloss  of  life,  which  enamour 
us  with  the  few  bright  days  of  the  English  summer,  make  the 
poetry  in  an  angler's  life,  and  convert  every  idler  at  heart 
into  a  moralist,  and  not  a  gloomy  one,  for  the  time. 


48  EUGENE  ARAM. 

Softened  by  the  quiet  beauty  and  voluptuousness  around 
him,  Walter's  thoughts  assumed  a  more  gentle  dye,  and  he 
broke  out  into  the  old  lines, — 

"  Sweet  day,  so  soft,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky,"  — 

as  he  dipped  his  line  into  the  current  and  drew  it  across  the 
shadowy  hollows  beneath  the  bank.  The  river-gods  were  not, 
however,  in  a  favorable  mood,  and  after  waiting  in  vain  for 
some  time,  in  a  spot  in  which  he  was  usually  successful,  he 
proceeded  slowly  along  the  margin  of  the  brooklet,  crush- 
ing the  reeds  at  every  step  into  that  fresh  and  delicious 
odor  which  furnished  Bacon  with  one  of  his  most  beautiful 
comparisons. 

He  thought,  as  he  proceeded,  that  beneath  a  tree  that  over- 
hung the  waters  in  the  narrowest  part  of  their  channel,  he 
heard  a  voice,  and  as  he  approached  he  recognized  it  as 
Aram's.  A  curve  in  the  stream  brought  him  close  by  the 
spot,  and  he  saw  the  student  half -reclined  beneath  the  tree, 
and  muttering,  but  at  broken  intervals,  to  himself. 

The  words  were  so  scattered  that  Walter  did  not  trace  their 
clew,  but  involuntarily  he  stopped  short  within  a  few  feet  of 
the  soliloquist;  and  Aram,  suddenly  turning  round,  beheld 
him.  A  fierce  and  abrupt  change  broke  over  the  scholar's 
countenance;  his  cheek  grew  now  pale,  now  flushed;  and  his 
brows  knit  over  his  flashing  and  dark  eyes  with  an  intent 
anger  that  was  the  more  withering  from  its  contrast  to  the 
usual  calmness  of  his  features.  Walter  drew  back;  but  Aram, 
stalking  directly  up  to  him,  gazed  into  his  face  as  if  he  would 
read  his  very  soul. 

"What!  eavesdropping?"  said  he,  with  a  ghastly  smile. 
"You  overheard  me,  did  you?  Well,  well,  what  said  I? 
What  said  I?"  Then,  pausing,  and  noting  that  Walter  did 
not  reply,  he  stamped  his  foot  violently,  and  grinding  his 
teeth,  repeated  in  a  smothered  tone:  "Boy,  what  said  I?" 

"  Mr.  Aram, "  said  Walter,  "  you  forget  yourself.  I  am  not 
one  to  play  the  listener,  more  especially  to  the  learned  ravings 
of  a  man  who  can  conceal  nothing  I  care  to  know.  Accident 
brought  me  hither." 


EUGENE  ARAM.  49 

"What!  surely  —  surely  I  spoke  aloud,  did  I  not, —  did  I 
not?" 

"You  did;  but  so  incoherently  and  indistinctly  that  I  did 
not  profit  by  your  indiscretion.  I  cannot  plagiarize,  I  assure 
you,  from  any  scholastic  designs  you  might  have  been  giving 
vent  to." 

Aram  looked  on  him  for  a  moment,  and  then,  breathing 
heavily,  turned  away. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said.  "I  am  a  poor,  half-crazed  man; 
much  study  has  unnerved  me, —  I  should  never  live  but  with 
my  own  thoughts.     Forgive  me,  sir,  I  pray  you." 

Touched  by  the  sudden  contrition  of  Aram's  manner,  Walter 
forgot,  not  only  his  present  displeasure,  but  his  general  dis- 
like; he  stretched  forth  his  hand  to  tiie  student,  and  hastened 
to  assure  him  of  his  ready  forgiveness.  Aram  sighed  deeply 
as  he  pressed  the  young  man's  hand,  and  Walter  saAv,  with 
surprise  and  emotion,  that  his  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

"Ah!"  said  Aram,  gently  shaking  his  head,  "it  is  a  hard 
life  we  bookmen  lead !  !N'ot  for  us  is  the  bright  face  of  noon- 
day or  the  smile  of  woman,  the  gay  unbending  of  the  heart, 
the  neighing  steed,  and  the  shrill  trump, —  the  pride,  pomp, 
and  circumstance  of  life.  Our  enjoyments  are  few  and  calm ; 
our  labor  constant.  But  that  is  not  the  evil,  sir,  —  the  body 
avenges  its  own  neglect.  We  grow  old  before  our  time;  we 
wither  up;  the  sap  of  youth  slirinks  from  our  veins;  there  is 
no  bound  in  our  step.  We  look  about  us  with  dimmed  eyes, 
and  our  breath  grows  short  and  thick,  and  pains  and  coughs 
and  shooting  aches  come  upon  us  at  night.  It  is  a  bitter  life, 
—  a  bitter  life,  a  joyless  life ;  I  would  I  had  never  commenced 
it.  And  yet  the  harsh  world  scowls  upon  us, —  our  nerves  are 
broken,  and  they  wonder  why  we  are  querulous;  our  blood 
curdles,  and  they  ask  why  we  are  not  gay;  our  brain  grows 
dizzy  and  indistinct  (as  with  me  just  now),  and  shrugging 
their  shoulders,  they  whisper  their  neighbors  that  we  are 
mad.  I  wish  I  had  worked  at  the  plough,  and  known  sleep, 
and  loved  mirth  —  and  —  and  not  been  what  I  am." 

As  the  student  uttered  the  last  sentence  he  bowed  his  head, 
and  a  few  tears  stole  silently  down  his  cheek.     Walter  was 

4 


50  EUGENE  ARAM. 

greatly  affected, —  it  took  him  by  surprise;  nothing  in  Aram's 
ordinary  demeanor  betrayed  any  facility  to  emotion;  and  he 
conveyed  to  all  the  idea  of  a  man,  if  not  proud,  at  least  cold. 

"You  do  not  suffer  bodily  pain,  I  trust?"  asked  Walter, 
soothingly. 

"Pain  does  not  conquer  me,"  said  Aram,  slowly  recovering 
himself.  "I  am  not  melted  by  that  which  I  would  fain  de- 
spise. Young  man,  I  wronged  you, — you  have  forgiven  me. 
Well,  well,  we  will  say  no  more  on  that  head;  it  is  past  and 
pardoned.  Your  uncle  has  been  kind  to  me,  and  I  have  not 
returned  his  advances :  you  shall  tell  him  why.  I  have  lived 
thirteen  years  by  myself,  and  I  have  contracted  strange  ways 
and  many  humors  not  common  to  the  world, —  you  have  seen 
an  example  of  this.  Judge  for  yourself  if  I  be  fit  for  the 
smoothness  and  confidence  and  ease  of  social  intercourse;  I 
am  not  fit,  I  feel  it!  I  am  doomed  to  be  alone;  tell  your 
uncle  this, — tell  him  to  suffer  me  to  live  so.  I  am  grateful 
for  his  goodness,  I  know  his  motives;  but  I  have  a  certain 
pride  of  mind :  I  cannot  bear  sufferance,  I  loathe  indulgence. 
Nay,  interrupt  me  not,  I  beseech  you.  Look  round  on  Na- 
ture; behold  the  only  company  that  humbles  me  not, —  except 
the  dead  whose  souls  speak  to  us  from  the  immortality  of 
books.  These  herbs  at  your  feet, —  I  know  their  secrets,  I 
watch  the  mechanism  of  their  life;  the  winds, — they  have 
taught  me  their  language;  the  stars, —  I  have  unravelled  their 
mysteries:  and  these, —  the  creatures  and  ministers  of  God, 
—  these  I  offend  not  by  my  mood,  to  them  I  utter  my  thoughts 
and  break  forth  into  my  dreams  without  reserve  and  without 
fear.  But  men  disturb  me, —  I  have  nothing  to  learn  from 
them,  I  have  no  wish  to  confide  in  them ;  they  cripple  the  wild 
liberty  which  has  become  to  me  a  second  nature.  What  its 
shell  is  to  the  tortoise,  solitude  has  become  to  me, — my  pro- 
tection ;  nay,  my  life !  " 

"  But, "  said  Walter,  "  with  us  at  least  you  would  not  have 
to  dread  restraint:  you  might  come  when  you  would;  be  silent 
or  converse,  according  to  your  will." 

Aram  smiled  faintly,  but  made  no  immediate  reply. 

"So,  you  have  been  angling,"  he  said,  after  a  short  pause, 


EUGENE  ARAM.  51 

and  as  if  willing  to  change  the  thread  of  conversation.  "  Fie ! 
it  is  a  treacherous  pursuit;  it  encourages  man's  worst  propen- 
sities,—  cruelty  and  deceit." 

"  I  should  have  thought  a  lover  of  Nature  would  have  been 
more  indulgent  to  a  pastime  which  introduces  us  to  her  most 
quiet  retreats." 

"  And  cannot  Nature  alone  tempt  you,  without  need  of  such 
allurements?  What!  that  crisped  and  winding  stream,  with 
flowers  on  its  very  tide, — the  water-violet  and  the  water-lily, 
—  these  silent  brakes,  the  cool  of  the  gathering  evening,  the 
still  and  luxuriance  of  the  universal  life  around  you :  are  not 
these  enough  of  themselves  to  tempt  you  forth?  If  not,  go 
to,  —  your  excuse  is  hypocrisy !  " 

"I  am  used  to  these  scenes,"  replied  Walter;  "I  am  weary 
of  the  thoughts  they  produce  in  me,  and  long  for  any  diver- 
sion or  excitement." 

"Ay,  ay,  young  man!  The  mind  is  restless  at  your  age: 
have  a  care!  Perhaps  you  long  to  visit  the  world, —  to  quit 
these  obscure  haunts  which  you  are  fatigued  in  admiring?  " 

"It  may  be  so,"  said  Walter,  with  a  slight  sigh.  "I  should 
at  least  like  to  visit  our  great  capital  and  note  the  contrast; 
I  should  come  back,  I  imagine,  with  a  greater  zest  to  these 
scenes." 

Aram  laughed.  "My  friend,"  said  he,  "when  men  have 
once  plunged  in  the  great  sea  of  human  toil  and  passion,  they 
soon  wash  away  all  love  and  zest  for  innocent  enjoyments. 
What  once  was  a  soft  retirement  will  become  the  most  intol- 
erable monotony ;  the  gaming  of  social  existence,  the  feverish 
and  desperate  chances  of  honor  and  wealth,  upon  which  the 
men  of  cities  set  their  hearts,  render  all  pursuits  less  exciting 
utterly  insipid  and  dull.  The  brook  and  the  angle  —  ha! 
ha !  —  these  are  not  occupations  for  men  who  have  once  battled 
with  the  world." 

"I  can  forego  them,  then,  without  regret,"  said  Walter, 
with  the  sanguineness  of  his  years. 

Aram  looked  upon  him  wistfully;  the  bright  eye,  the 
healthy  cheek,  and  vigorous  frame  of  the  youth  suited  with 
his  desire  to  seek  the  conflict  of  his  kind,  and  gave  a  natural 


52  EUGENE  ARAM. 

grace  to  his  ambition  which  was  not  without  interest,  even  to 
the  recluse. 

"  Poor  boy !  "  said  he,  mournfully.  "  How  gallantly  the  ship 
leaves  the  port, — how  worn  and  battered  it  will  return!  " 

When  they  parted,  Walter  returned  slowly  homewards, 
filled  with  pity  for  the  singular  man  whom  he  had  seen  so 
strangely  overpowered,  and  wondering  how  suddenly  his  mind 
had  lost  its  former  rancor  to  the  student.  Yet  there  mingled 
even  with  these  kindly  feelings  a  little  displeasure  at  the  su- 
perior tone  which  Aram  had  unconsciously  adopted  towards 
him,  and  to  which,  from  any  one,  the  high  spirit  of  the  young 
man  was  not  readily  willing  to  submit. 

Meanwhile  the  student  continued  his  path  along  the  water- 
side; and  as,  with  his  gliding  step  and  musing  air,  he  roamed 
onward,  it  was  impossible  to  imagine  a  form  more  suited  to 
the  deep  tranquillity  of  the  scene.  Even  the  wild  birds 
seemed  to  feel,  by  a  sort  of  instinct,  that  m  him  there  was  no 
cause  for  fear,  and  did  not  stir  from  the  turf  that  neighbored, 
or  the  spray  that  overhung  his  path. 

"So,"  said  he,  soliloquizing,  but  not  without  casting  fre- 
quent and  jealous  glances  round  him,  and  in  a  murmur  so  in- 
distinct as  would  have  been  inaudible  even  to  a  listener,  "  so, 
I  was  not  overheard.  Well,  I  must  cure  myself  of  this  habit; 
our  thoughts,  like  nuns,  ought  not  to  go  abroad  without  a  veil. 
Ay,  this  tone  will  not  betray  me;  I  will  preserve  its  tenor, 
for  I  can  scarcely  altogether  renounce  my  sole  confidant, — 
self;  and  thought  seems  more  clear  when  uttered  even  thus. 
'T  is  a  fine  youth,  full  of  the  impulse  and  daring  of  his  years ; 
/  was  never  so  young  at  heart.  I  was  —  Nay,  what  matters 
it  ?  Who  is  answerable  for  his  nature  ?  Who  can  say,  'I con- 
trolled all  the  circumstances  which  made  me  what  I  am?' 
Madeline  —  Heavens !  did  I  bring  on  myself  this  temptation? 
Have  I  not  fenced  it  from  me  throughout  all  my  youth,  when 
my  brain  did  at  moments  forsake  me,  and  the  veins  did 
bound?  And  now,  when  the  yellow  hastens  on  the  green  of 
life, —  now,  for  the  first  time,  this  emotion,  this  weakness  — 
And  for  whom?  One  I  have  lived  with,  known,  beneath 
whose  eyes  I  have  passed  through  all  the  fine  gradations  from 


♦  EUGENE   ARAM.  63 

liking  to  love,  from  love  to  passion?  No, — one  whom  I  have 
seen  but  little;  who,  it  is  true,  arrested  my  eye  at  the  first 
glance  it  caught  of  her  two  years  since,  but  to  whom,  till 
within  the  last  few  weeks,  I  have  scarcely  spoken !  Her  voice 
rings  in  my  ear,  her  look  dwells  on  my  heart;  when  I  sleep 
she  is  with  me;  when  I  wake  I  am  haunted  by  her  image. 
Strange,  strange !  Is  love,  then,  after  all,  the  sudden  passion 
Avhich  in  every  age  poetry  has  termed  it,  though  till  now  my 
reason  has  disbelieved  the  notion? 

"And  now,  what  is  the  question, —  to  resist,  or  to  yield? 
Her  father  invites  me,  courts  me,  and  I  stand  aloof!  Will 
this  strength,  this  forbearance,  last?  Shall  I  encourage  my 
mind  to  this  decision?"  Here  Aram  paused  abruptly,  and 
then  renewed:  "It  is  true!  I  ought  to  weave  my  lot  with 
none.  Memory  sets  me  apart  and  alone  in  the  world.  It 
seems  unnatural  to  me  —  a  thought  of  dread  —  to  bring  an- 
other being  to  my  solitude,  to  set  an  everlasting  watch  on  my 
up-risings  and  my  down -sittings;  to  invite  eyes  to  my  face 
when  I  sleep  at  nights,  and  ears  to  every  word  that  may  start 
unbidden  from  my  lips.  But  if  the  watch  be  the  watch  of 
love —  Away!  does  love  endure  forever?  He  who  trusts  to 
woman,  trusts  to  the  type  of  change.  Affection  may  turn  to 
hatred,  fondness  to  loathing,  anxiety  to  dread;  and,  at  the 
best,  woman  is  weak, —  she  is  the  minion  to  her  impulses. 
Enough!  I  will  steel  my  soul,  shut  up  the  avenues  of  sense, 
brand  with  the  scathmg-iron  these  yet  green  and  soft  emo- 
tions of  lingering  youth,  and  freeze  and  chain  and  curdle  up 
feeling  and  heart  and  manhood  into  ice  and  age ! " 


54  EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTEK  Vn. 

THE  POWER  OP  LOVE  OVER  THE  RESOLUTION  OF  THE  STUDENT. 
ARAM  BECOMES  A  FREQUENT  GUEST  AT  THE  MANOR- 
HOUSE. A  WALK. CONVERSATION  WITH  DAME  DARKMANS. 

HER   HISTORY. POVERTY    AND    ITS    EFFECTS. 

Mad.     Then,  as  Time  won  thee  frequent  to  our  hearth. 
Didst  thou  not  breathe,  like  dreams,  into  my  soul 
Nature's  more  gentle  secrets,  —  the  sweet  lore 
Of  the  green  herb  and  the  bee-worshipped  flower,? 
And  when  deep  Night  did  o'er  the  nether  Earth 
Diffuse  meek  quiet,  and  the  Heart  of  Heaven 
With  love  grew  breathless,  didst  thou  not  unroll 
The  volume  of  the  weird  Chaldiean  stars. 
And  of  the  winds,  the  clouds,  the  invisible  air, 
Make  eloquent  discourse,  until,  methought, 
No  human  lip,  but  some  diviner  spirit 
Alone,  could  preach  such  truths  of  things  divine  ' 
And  so,  and  so  — 

Aram.  From  Heaven  we  turned  to  Earth, 

And  Wisdom  fathered  Passion. 

Aram.     Wise  men  have  praised  the  Peasant's  thoughtless  lot. 
And  learned  Pride  hath  envied  humble  Toil. 
If  they  were  right,  why  let  us  burn  our  books, 
And  sit  us  down  and  play  the  fool  with  Time, 
Mocking  the  prophet  Wisdom's  high  decrees. 
And  walling  this  trite  Present  with  dark  clouds 
Till  Night  becomes  our  Nature,  and  the  ray 
E'en  of  the  stars  but  meteors  that  withdraw 
The  wandering  spirit  from  the  sluggish  rest 
Which  makes  its  proper  bliss.     I  will  accost 
This  denizen  of  toil.  —  From  Eugene  Aram,  a  MS.  Tragedy. 

A  wicked  hag,  and  envy's  self  excelling 
In  mischiefe,  for  herself  she  only  vext ; 
But  this  same,  both  herself  and  others  eke  perplext. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  55 

Who  then  can  strive  with  strong  necessity, 
That  holds  the  world  in  his  still  changing  state  ? 

Then  do  no  further  go,  no  further  stray. 

But  here  lie  down,  and  to  thy  rest  betake.  —  Spenser. 

Few  men,  perhaps,  could  boast  of  so  masculine  and  firm  a 
mind  as,  despite  his  eccentricities,  Aram  assuredly  possessed. 
His  habits  of  solitude  had  strengthened  its  natural  hardihood; 
for  accustomed  to  make  all  the  sources  of  happiness  flow  solely 
from  himself,  his  thoughts  the  only  companions,  his  genius 
the  only  vivifier,  of  his  retreat,  —  the  tone  and  faculty  of  his 
spirit  could  not  but  assume  that  austere  and  vigorous  energy 
which  the  habit  of  self-dependence  almost  invariably  produces ; 
and  yet  the  reader,  if  he  be  young,  will  scarcely  feel  surprised 
that  the  resolution  of  the  student  to  battle  against  incipient 
love,  from  whatever  reasons  it  might  be  formed,  gradually  and 
reluctantly  melted  away.  It  may  be  noted  that  the  enthusi- 
asts of  learning  and  revery  have,  at  one  time  or  another  in 
their  lives,  been,  of  all  the  tribes  of  men,  the  most  keenly 
susceptible  to  love,  —  their  solitude  feeds  their  passion;  and 
deprived,  as  they  usually  are,  of  the  more  hurried  and  vehe- 
ment occupations  of  life,  when  love  is  once  admitted  to  their 
hearts  there  is  no  counter-check  to  its  emotions  and  no  escape 
from  its  excitement.  Aram,  too,  had  just  arrived  at  that  age 
when  a  man  usually  feels  a  sort  of  revulsion  in  the  current  of 
his  desires.  At  that  age,  those  who  have  hitherto  pursued 
love  begin  to  grow  alive  to  ambition;  those  who  have  been 
slaves  to  the  pleasures  of  life  awaken  from  the  dream,  and 
direct  their  desire  to  its  interests.  And  in  the  same  propor- 
tion, they  who  till  then  have  wasted  the  prodigal  fervors  of 
youth  upon  a  sterile  soil,  who  have  served  Ambition,  or,  like 
Aram,  devoted  their  hearts  to  Wisdom,  relax  from  their  ardor, 
look  back  on  the  departed  years  with  regret,  and  commence, 
in  their  manhood,  the  fiery  pleasures  and  delirious  follies 
which  are  only  pardonable  in  youth.  In  short,  as  in  every 
human  pursuit  there  is  a  certain  vanity,  and  as  every  acquisi- 
tion contains  within  itself  the  seed  of  disappointment,  so  there 
is  a  period  of  life  when  we  pause  from  the  pursuit  and  are 


56  EUGENE   ARAM. 

discontented  with  the  acquisition.  We  then  look  around  us 
for  something  new,  again  follow,  and  are  again  deceived. 
Few  men  throughout  life  are  the  servants  to  one  desire. 
When  we  gain  the  middle  of  the  bridge  of  our  mortality, 
different  objects  from  those  which  attracted  us  upward  almost 
invariably  lure  us  down  the  descent.  Happy  they  who  ex- 
haust in  the  former  part  of  the  journey  all  the  foibles  of  ex- 
istence! But  how  different  is  the  crude  and  evanescent  love 
of  that  age  when  thought  has  not  given  intensity  and  jiower 
to  the  passions,  from  the  love  which  is  felt,  for  the  first  time, 
in  maturer  but  still  youthful  years !  As  the  flame  burns  the 
brighter  in  proportion  to  the  resistance  which  it  conquers, 
this  later  love  is  the  more  glowing  in  proportion  to  the  length 
of  time  in  which  it  has  overcome  temptation;  all  the  solid 
and  concentred  faculties,  ripened  to  their  full  height,  are 
no  longer  capable  of  the  infinite  distractions,  the  numberless 
caprices,  of  youth ;  the  rays  of  the  heart,  not  rendered  weak  by 
diversion,  collect  into  one  burning  focus ;  ^  the  same  earnest- 
ness and  unity  of  purpose  which  render  what  we  undertake  in 
manhood  so  far  more  successful  than  what  we  would  effect  in 
youth,  are  equally  visible  and  equally  triumphant,  whether 
directed  to  interest  or  to  love.  But  then,  as  in  Aram,  the  feel- 
ings must  be  fresh  as  well  as  matured;  they  must  not  have 
been  frittered  away  by  previous  indulgence;  the  love  must  be 
the  first  produce  of  the  soil,  not  the  languid  after-growth. 

The  reader  will  remark  that  the  first  time  in  which  our  nar- 
rative has  brought  Madeline  and  Aram  together,  was  not  the 
first  time  they  had  met;  Aram  had  long  noted  with  admiration 
a  beauty  which  he  had  never  seen  paralleled,  and  certain 
vague  and  unsettled  feelings  had  preluded  the  deep  emotion 
that  her  image  now  excited  within  him.  But  the  main  cause 
of  his  present  and  growing  attachment  had  been  in  the  evi- 
dent sentiment  of  kindness  which  he  could  not  but  feel  Made- 
line bore  towards  him.  So  retiring  a  nature  as  his  might 
never  have  harbored  love  if  the  love  bore  the  character  of  pre- 
sumption;   but  that  one  so  beautiful    beyond   his  dreams  as 

^  Love  is  of  the  nature  of  a  burning-glass,  which,  kept  still  in  one  place, 
fireth ;  changed  often,  it  doth  nothing.  —  Letters  by  Sir  John  Suckling. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  67 

Madeline  Lester  should  deign  to  cherish  for  him  a  tenderness 
that  might  suffer  him  to  hope,  was  a  thought  that,  when  he 
caught  her  eye  unconsciously  fixed  upon  him,  and  noted  that 
her  voice  grew  softer  and  more  tremulous  when  she  addressed 
him,  forced  itself  upon  his  heart,  and  woke  there  a  strange 
and  irresistible  emotion,  which  solitude  and  the  brooding  re- 
flection that  solitude  produces  —  a  reflection  so  much  more  in- 
tense m  proportion  to  the  paucity  of  living  images  it  dwells 
upon  —  soon  ripened  into  love.  Perhaps,  even,  he  would  not 
have,  resisted  the  impulse  as  he  now  did,  had  not,  at  this  time, 
certain  thoughts  connected  with  past  events  been  more  for- 
cibly than  of  late  years  obtruded  upon  him,  and  thus  in 
some  measure  divided  his  heart.  By  degrees,  however,  those 
thoughts  receded  from  their  vividness  into  the  habitual  deep, 
but  not  oblivious,  shade  beneath  which  his  commanding  mind 
had  formerly  driven  them  to  repose ;  and  as  they  thus  receded, 
Madeline's  image  grew  more  undisturbedly  present,  and  his 
resolution  to  avoid  its  power  more  fluctuating  and  feeble. 
Fate  seemed  bent  upon  bringing  together  these  two  persons, 
already  so  attracted  towards  each  other.  After  the  conver- 
sation recorded  in  our  last  chapter  between  Walter  and  the 
student,  the  former,  touched  and  softened,  as  we  have  seen, 
in  spite  of  himself,  had  cheerfully  forborne  (what  before  he 
had  done  reluctantly)  the  expressions  of  dislike  which  he  had 
once  lavished  so  profusely  upon  Aram ;  and  Lester,  who,  for- 
ward as  he  had  seemed,  had  nevertheless  been  hitherto  a  little 
checked  in  his  advances  to  his  neighbor  by  the  hostility  of 
his  nephew,  felt  no  scruple  to  deter  him  from  urging  them 
Avith  a  pertinacity  that  almost  forbade  refusal.  It  was  Aram's 
constant  habit,  in  all  seasons,  to  wander  abroad  at  certain 
times  of  the  day,  especially  towards  the  evening ;  and  if  Les- 
ter failed  to  win  entrance  to  his  house,  he  was  thus  enabled 
to  meet  the  student  in  his  frequent  rambles,  and  with  a  seem- 
ing freedom  from  design.  Actuated  by  his  great  benevolence 
of  character,  Lester  earnestly  desired  to  win  his  solitary  and 
unfriended  neighbor  from  a  mood  and  habit  which  he  natu- 
rally imagined  must  engender  a  growing  melancholy  of  mind; 
and  since  Walter  had  detailed  to  him  the  particulars  of  his 


58  EUGENE   ARAM. 

meeting  with  Aram,  this  desire  had  been  considerably  in- 
creased. There  is  not,  perhaps,  a  stronger  feeling  in  the 
world  than  pity,  when  united  with  admiration.  When  one 
man  is  resolved  to  know  another,  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
prevent  it :  we  see  daily  the  most  remarkable  instances  of  per- 
severance on  one  side  conquering  distaste  on  the  other.  By 
degrees,  then,  Aram  relaxed  from  his  insociability ;  he  seemed 
to  surrender  himself  to  a  kindness,  the  sincerity  of  which  he 
was  compelled  to  acknowledge.  If  he  for  a  long  time  refused 
to  accept  the  hospitality  of  his  neighbor,  he  did  not  reject  his 
society  when  they  met;  and  this  intercourse  increased  by  little 
and  little,  until,  ultimately,  the  recluse  yielded  to  solicitation, 
and  became  the  guest  as  well  as  companion.  This,  at  first 
accident,  grew,  though  not  without  many  interruptions,  into 
habit;  and  at  length  few  evenings  were  passed  by  the  inmates 
of  the  manor-house  without  the  society  of  the  student. 

As  his  reserve  wore  oif,  his  conversation  mingled  with  its 
attractions  a  tender  and  affectionate  tone.  He  seemed  grate- 
ful for  the  pains  which  had  been  taken  to  allure  him  to  a 
scene  in  which,  at  last,  he  acknowledged  he  found  a  happi- 
ness that  he  had  never  experienced  before;  and  those  who 
had  hitherto  admired  him  for  his  genius,  admired  him  now 
yet  more  for  his  susceptibility  to  the  affections. 

There  was  not  in  Aram  anything  that  savored  of  the  harsh- 
ness of  pedantry  or  the  petty  vanities  of  dogmatism ;  his  voice 
was  soft  and  low,  and  his  manner  always  remarkable  for  its 
singular  gentleness  and  a  certain  dignified  humility.  His 
language  did,  indeed,  at  times,  assume  a  tone  of  calm  and 
patriarchal  command;  but  it  was  only  the  command  arising 
from  an  intimate  persuasion  of  the  truth  of  what  he  uttered. 
Moralizing  upon  our  nature,  or  mourning  over  the  delusions  of 
the  world,  a  grave  and  solemn  strain  breathed  throughout  his 
lofty  words  and  the  profound  melancholy  of  his  wisdom;  but 
it  touched,  not  offended, —  elevated,  not  hiimbled,  —  the  lesser 
intellect  of  his  listeners :  and  even  this  air  of  unconscious  su- 
periority vanished  when  he  was  invited  to  teach  or  explain. 

That  task  —  which  so  few  do  gracefully  that  an  accurate 
and  shrewd  thinker  has  said, "It  is  always  safe  to  learn,  even 


EUGENE   ARAM.  59 

from  our  enemies ;  seldom  safe  to  instruct  even  our  friends  "  ^ 
—  Aram  performed  with  a  meekness  and  simplicity  that 
charmed  the  vanity,  even  while  it  corrected  the  ignorance,  of 
the  applicant ;  and  so  various  and  minute  was  the  information 
of  this  accomplished  man  that  there  scarcely  existed  any 
branch,  even  of  that  knowledge  usually  called  practical,  to 
which  he  could  not  impart  from  his  stores  something  valuable 
and  new.  The  agriculturist  was  astonished  at  the  success  of 
his  suggestions,  and  the  mechanic  was  indebted  to  him  for  the 
device  which  abridged  his  labor  in  improving  its  result. 

It  happened  that  the  study  of  botany  was  not,  at  that  day, 
so  favorite  and  common  a  diversion  with  young  ladies  as  it  is 
now;  and  Ellinor,  captivated  by  the  notion  of  a  science  that 
gave  a  life  and  a  history  to  the  loveliest  of  earth's  offspring, 
besought  Aram  to  teach  her  its  principles. 

As  Madeline,  though  she  did  not  second  the  request,  could 
scarcely  absent  herself  from  sharing  the  lesson,  this  pursuit 
brought  the  pair  —  already  lovers  —  closer  and  closer  together. 
It  associated  them,  not  only  at  home,  but  in  their  rambles 
throughout  that  enchanting  country;  and  there  is  a  myste- 
rious influence  in  Nature  which  renders  us,  in  her  loveliest 
scenes,  the  most  susceptible  to  love.  Then,  too,  how  often 
in  their  occupation  their  hands  and  eyes  met;  how  often,  by 
the  shady  wood  or  the  soft  water-side,  they  found  themselves 
alone.  In  all  times,  how  dangerous  the  connection,  when  of 
different  sexes,  between  the  scholar  and  the  teacher !  Under 
how  many  pretences,  in  that  connection,  the  heart  finds  the 
opportunity  to  speak  out ! 

Yet  it  was  not  with  ease  and  complacency  that  Aram  deliv- 
ered himself  to  the  intoxication  of  his  deepening  attachment. 
Sometimes  he  was  studiously  cold,  or  evidently  wrestling 
with  the  powerful  passion  that  mastered  his  reason.  It  was 
not  without  many  throes  and  desperate  resistance  that  love  at 
length  overwhelmed  and  subdued  him;  and  these  alterna- 
tions of  his  mood,  if  they  sometimes  offended  Madeline  and 
sometimes  wounded,  still  rather  increased  than  lessened  the 
spell  which  bound  her  to  him.     The  doubt  and  the  fear,  the 

1  Lacon. 


60  EUGENE  ARAM. 

caprice  and  the  cliange,  which  agitate  the  surface,  swell  also 
the  tides,  of  passion.  Woman,  too,  whose  love  is  so  much 
the  creature  of  her  imagination,  always  asks  something  of 
mystery  and  conjecture  in  tlie  object  of  her  affection.  It  is  a 
luxury  to  her  to  perplex  herself  with  a  thousand  apprehen- 
sions; and  the  more  restlessly  her  lover  occupies  her  mind, 
the  more  deeply  he  enthralls  it. 

Mingling  with  her  pure  and  tender  attachment  to  Aram  a 
high  and  unswerving  veneration,  she  saw,  in  his  fitfulness 
and  occasional  abstraction  and  contradiction  of  manner,  a  con- 
firmation of  the  modest  sentiment  that  most  weighed  upon  her 
fears,  and  imagined  that  at  those  times  he  thought  her,  as  she 
deemed  herself,  unworthy  of  his  love.  And  this  was  the  only 
struggle  Avhich  she  conceived  to  pass  between  the  affection  he 
evidently  bore  her,  and  the  feelings  which  had  as  yet  re- 
strained him  from  its  open  avowal. 

One  evening  Lester  and  the  two  sisters  were  walking  with 
the  student  along  the  valley  that  led  to  the  house  of  the  lat- 
ter, when  they  saw  an  old  woman  engaged  in  collecting  fire- 
wood among  the  bushes,  and  a  little  girl  holding  out  her  apron 
to  receive  the  sticks  with  which  the  crone's  skinny  arms  un- 
sparingly filled  it.  The  child  trembled,  and  seemed  half -cry- 
ing; while  the  old  woman,  in  a  harsh,  grating  croak,  was 
muttering  forth  mingled  objurgation  and  complaint. 

There  was  something  in  the  appearance  of  the  latter  at  once 
impressive  and  displeasing:  a  dark,  withered,  furrowed  skin 
was  drawn  like  parchment  over  harsh  and  aquiline  features; 
the  eyes,  through  the  rheum  of  age,  glittered  forth  black  and 
malignant;  and  even  her  stooping  posture  did  not  conceal  a 
height  greatly  above  the  common  stature,  though  gaunt  and 
shrivelled  with  years  and  poverty.  It  was  a  form  and  face 
that  might  have  recalled  at  once  the  celebrated  description  of 
Otway,  on  a  part  of  which  we  have  already  unconsciously 
encroached,  and  the  remaining  part  of  which  we  shall  wholly 
borrow,  — 

"  On  her  crooked  shoulders  had  she  wrapped 
The  tattered  remnants  of  an  old  stript  hanging 
That  served  to  keep  her  carcass  from  the  cold ; 


EUGENE  ARAM.  61 

So  there  was  nothing  of  a  piece  about  her. 

Her  lower  weeds  were  all  o'er  coarsely  patched 

With  different-colored  rags,  —  black,  red,  white,  yellow,— 

And  seemed  to  speak  variety  of  wretchedness." 

"See,"  said  Lester,  "one  of  the  eyesores  of  our  village, — I 
might  say  the  only  discontented  person." 

"What!  Dame  Darkmans?"  said  Ellinor,  quickly.  "Ah! 
let  us  turn  back.  I  hate  to  encounter  that  old  woman;  there 
is  something  so  evil  and  savage  in  her  manner  of  talk.  And 
look,  how  she  rates  that  poor  girl  whom  she  has  dragged  or 
decoyed  to  assist  her !  " 

Aram  looked  curiously  on  the  old  hag.  "  Poverty, "  said  he, 
"makes  some  humble,  but  more  malignant;  is  it  not  want 
that  grafts  the  devil  on  this  poor  woman's  nature?  Come,  let 
us  accost  her, —  I  like  conferring  with  distress." 

"It  is  hard  labor  this?"  said  the  student,  gently. 

The  old  woman  looked  up  askant:  the  music  of  the  voice 
that  addresed  her  sounded  harsh  on  her  ear. 

"  Ay,  ay !  "  she  answered.  "  You  fine  gentlefolks  can  know 
what  the  poor  suffer:  ye  talk  and  ye  talk,  but  ye  never 
assist." 

"Say  not  so,  dame,"  said  Lester;  "did  I  not  send  you  but 
yesterday  bread  and  money?  And  when  did  you  ever  look  up 
at  the  Hall  without  obtaining  relief  ?  " 

"But  the  bread  was  as  dry  as  a  stick,"  growled  the  hag; 
"  and  the  money, — what  was  it?  Will  it  last  a  week?  Oh, 
yes!  Ye  think  as  much  of  your  doits  and  mites  as  if  ye 
stripped  yourselves  of  a  comfort  to  give  it  to  us.  Did  ye 
have  a  dish  less,  a  'tato  less,  the  day  ye  sent  me  —  your 
charity  I  s'pose  ye  calls  it?  Och!  fie!  But  the  Bible 's  the 
130or  oretur's  comfort." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  dame,"  said  the  good- 
natured  Lester;  "and  I  forgive  everything  else  you  have  said, 
on  account  of  that  one  sentence." 

The  old  woman  dropped  the  sticks  she  had  just  gathered, 
and  glowered  at  the  speaker's  benevolent  countenance  with  a 
malicious  meaning  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"An'  ye  do?     Well,  I  'm  glad  I  please  ye  there.     Och!  yes! 


62  EUGENE  ARAM. 

the  Bible  's  a  mighty  comfort;  for  it  says  as  much  that  the 
rich  man  shall  not  inter  the  kingdom  of  heaven !  There  's  a 
truth  for  you  that  makes  the  ^oor  folks'  heart  chirp  like  a 
cricket,  ho!  ho!  /sits  by  the  imbers  of  a  night,  and  I  thinks 
and  thinks  as  how  I  shall  see  you  all  burning;  and  ye  '11  ask 
me  for  a  drop  o'  water,  and  I  shall  laugh  thin  from  my  pleasant 
seat  with  the  angels.     Och!  it 's  a  book  for  the  poor  that!  " 

The  sisters  shuddered.  "And  you  think,  then,  that  with 
envy,  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness  at  your  heart,  you  are 
certain  of  heaven?  For  shame!  Pluck  the  mote  from  your 
own  eye ! " 

"What  sinnifies  praching?  Did  not  the  Blessed  Saviour 
come  for  the  poor?  Them  as  has  rags  and  dry  bread  here  will 
be  ixalted  in  the  nixt  world;  an'  if  we  poor  folk  have  malice, 
as  ye  calls  it,  whose  fault's  that?  What  do  ye  tache  us? 
Eh?  —  Answer  me  that.  Ye  keeps  all  the  laming  an'  all  the 
other  fine  things  to  yoursel',  and  then  ye  scould  and  thritten 
and  hang  us  'cause  we  are  not  as  wise  as  you.  Och!  there  's 
no  jistice  in  the  Lamb  if  heaven  is  not  made  for  us;  and  the 
iverlasting  hell,  with  its  brimstone  and  fire,  and  its  gnawing 
an'  gnashing  of  teeth,  an'  its  theirst,  an'  its  torture,  an'  its 
worm  that  niver  dies,  for  the  like  o'  you." 

"Come,  come  away!"  said  Ellinor,  pulling  her  father's 
arm. 

"And  if,"  said  Aram,  pausing,  "if  I  were  to  say  to  you, 
name  your  want,  and  it  shall  be  fulfilled,  would  you  have  no 
charity  for  me  also?" 

"  Umph !  "  returned  the  hag,  "  ye  are  the  great  scholard,  and 
they  say  ye  knows  what  no  one  else  do.  Till  me  now,"  and 
she  approached,  and  familiarly  laid  her  bony  finger  on  the 
student's  arm,  "till  me, —  have  ye  iver,  among  other  fine 
things,  known  poverty?" 

"  I  have,  woman !  "  said  Aram,  sternly. 

"Och,  ye  have,  thin!  And  did  ye  not  sit  and  gloom  and 
eat  up  your  oun  heart,  an'  curse  the  sun  that  looked  so  gay, 
an'  the  winged  things  that  played  so  blithe-like,  an'  scowl  at 
the  rich  folk  that  niver  wasted  a  thought  on  ye?  Till  me 
now,  your  honor,  till  me  I  " 


EUGENE   ARAM.  63 

And  the  crone  courtesied  with  a  mock  air  of  beseeching 
humility. 

"  I  never  forgot,  even  in  want,  the  love  due  to  my  fellow- 
sufferers;  for,  woman,  we  all  suffer, — the  rich  and  the  poor: 
there  are  worse  pangs  than  those  of  want." 

"Ye  think  there  be,  do  ye?  That's  a  comfort,  umph! 
Well,  I  '11  till  ye  now,  I  feel  a  rispict  for  you  that  I  don't 
for  the  rest  on  'em:  for  your  face  does  not  insult  me  with 
being  cheary  like  theirs  yonder;  an'  I  have  noted  ye  walk  in 
the  dusk  with  your  eyes  down  and  your  arms  crossed;  an'  I 
have  said, — that  man  I  do  not  hate,  somehow,  for  he  has 
something  dark  at  his  heart,  like  me !  " 

"The  lot  of  earth  is  woe,"  answered  Aram,  calmly,  yet 
shrinking  back  from  the  crone's  touch;  "judge  we  charitably, 
and  act  we  kindly  to  each  other.  There,  this  money  is  not 
much,  but  it  will  light  your  hearth  and  heap  your  table  with- 
out toil  for  some  days  at  least." 

"Thank  your  honor!  An'  what  think  you  T  '11  do  with  the 
money?" 

"What?" 

"Drink,  drink,  drink!"  cried  the  hag,  fiercely.  "There's 
nothing  like  drink  for  the  poor,  for  thin  we  fancy  ourselves 
what  we  wish.  And,"  sinking  her  voice  into  a  whisper,  "I 
thinks  thin  that  I  have  my  foot  on  the  billies  of  the  rich 
folks,  and  my  hands  twisted  about  their  intrails,  and  I  hear 
them  shriek,  and  —  thin  I  am  happy." 

"Go  home!"  said  Aram,  turning  away;  "and  open  the 
Book  of  Life  with  other  thoughts." 

The  little  party  proceeded;  and  looking  back,  Lester  saw  the 
old  woman  gaze  after  them,  till  a  tiirn  in  the  winding  valley 
hid  her  from  his  sight. 

"That  is  a  strange  person,  Aram, —  scarcely  a  favorable 
specimen  of  the  happy  English  peasant,"  said  Lester,  smiling. 

"Yet  they  say,"  added  Madeline,  "that  she  was  not  always 
the  same  perverse  and  hateful  creature  she  is  now." 

"Ay,"  said  Aram;  "and  what,  then,  is  her  history?" 

"Why,"  replied  Madeline,  slightly  blushing  to  find  herself 
made  the  narrator  of  a  story,    "some  forty  years  ago   this 


64  EUGENE   ARAM. 

woman,  so  gaunt  and  hideous  now,  was  the  beauty  of  the  vil- 
lage. She  married  an  Irish  soldier  whose  regiment  passed 
through  Grassdale,  and  was  heard  of  no  more  till  about  ten 
years  back,  when  she  returned  to  her  native  place,  the  discon- 
tented, envious,  altered  being  you  now  see  her." 

"She  is  not  reserved  in  regard  to  her  past  life,"  said  Lester. 
"  She  is  too  happy  to  seize  the  attention  of  any  one  to  whom 
she  can  pour  forth  her  dark  and  angry  confidence.  She  saw 
her  husband,  who  was  afterwards  dismissed  the  service, —  a 
strong,  powerful  man,  a  giant  of  his  tribe, —  pine  and  waste, 
inch  by  inch,  from  mere  physical  want,  and  at  last  literally 
die  from  hunger.  It  happened  that  they  had  settled  in  the 
county  in  which  her  husband  was  born;  and  in  that  county 
those  frequent  famines  which  are  the  scourge  of  Ireland  were 
for  two  years  especially  severe.  You  may  note  that  the  old 
woman  has  a  strong  vein  of  coarse  eloquence  at  her  command, 
perhaps  acquired  in  (for  it  partakes  of  the  natural  character 
of)  the  country  in  which  she  lived  so  long;  and  it  would  lit- 
erally thrill  you  with  horror  to  hear  her  descriptions  of  the 
misery  and  destitution  that  she  witnessed,  and  amidst  which 
her  husband  breathed  his  last.  Out  of  four  children,  not  one 
survives.  One,  an  infant,  died  within  a  week  of  the  father; 
two  sons  were  executed  —  one  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  one  a 
year  older  —  for  robbery  committed  under  aggravated  circum- 
stances; and  a  fourth,  a  daughter,  died  in  the  hospitals  of 
London.  The  old  woman  became  a  wanderer  and  a  vagrant, 
and  was  at  length  passed  to  her  native  parish,  where  she  has 
since  dwelt.  These  are  the  misfortunes  which  have  turned 
her  blood  to  gall,  and  these  are  the  causes  which  fill  her  with 
so  bitter  a  hatred  against  those  whom  wealth  has  preserved 
from  sharing  or  witnessing  a  fate  similar  to  hers." 

"Oh!  "  said  Aram,  in  a  low  but  deep  tone,  "when,  when  will 
these  hideous  disparities  be  banished  from  the  world?  How 
many  noble  natures,  how  many  glorious  hopes,  how  much  of 
the  seraph's  intellect,  have  been  crushed  into  the  mire  or 
blasted  into  guilt  by  the  mere  force  of  physical  want!  What 
are  the  temptations  of  the  rich  to  those  of  the  poor?  Yet  see 
how  lenient  we  are  to  the  crimes  of  the  one, —  how  relentless 


EUGENE   ARAM.  65 

to  those  of  the  other!  It  is  a  bad  world;  it  makes  a  man's 
heart  sick  to  look  around  him.  The  consciousness  of  how  lit- 
tle individual  genius  can  do  to  relieve  the  mass,  grinds  out,  as 
with  a  stone,  all  that  is  generous  in  ambition,  and  to  aspire 
from  the  level  of  life  is  but  to  be  more  graspingly  selfish." 

"  Can  legislators,  or  the  moralists  that  instruct  legislators, 
do  so  little,  then,  towards  universal  good?"  said  Lester, 
doubtingly. 

"Why,  what  can  they  do  but  forward  civilization?  And 
what  is  civilization  but  an  increase  of  human  disparities?  The 
more  the  luxury  of  the  few,  the  more  startling  the  wants  and 
the  more  galling  the  sense  of  poverty.  Even  the  dreams  of 
the  philanthropist  only  tend  towards  equality;  and  where  is 
equality  to  be  found  but  in  the  state  of  the  savage?  No; 
I  thought  otherwise  once,  but  I  now  regard  the  vast  lazar- 
house  around  us  without  hope  of  relief, —  death  is  the  sole 
physician ! " 

"Ah,  no!"  said  the  high-souled  Madeline,  eagerly;  "do 
not  take  away  from  us  the  best  feeling  and  the  highest  desire 
we  can  cherish.  How  poor,  even  in  this  beautiful  world,  with 
the  warm  sun  and  fresh  air  about  us,  would  be  life  if  we 
could  not  make  the  happiness  of  others !  " 

Aram  looked  at  the  beautiful  speaker  with  a  soft  and  half- 
mournful  smile.  There  is  one  very  peculiar  pleasure  that  we 
feel  as  we  grow  older, —  it  is  to  see  embodied,  in  another  and 
a  more  lovely  shape,  the  thoughts  and  sentiments  we  once 
nursed  ourselves ;  it  is  as  if  we  viewed  before  us  the  incarna- 
tion of  our  own  youth ;  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  we  are  warmed 
towards  the  object  that  thus  seems  the  living  apparition  of 
all  that  was  brightest  in  ourselves.  It  was  with  this  senti- 
ment that  Aram  now  gazed  on  Madeline.  She  felt  the  gaze, 
and  her  heart  beat  delightedly ;  but  she  sank  at  once  into  a 
silence  which  she  did  not  break  during  the  rest  of  their  walk. 

"  I  do  not  say, "  said  Aram,  after  a  pause,  "  that  we  are  not 
able  to  make  the  happiness  of  those  immediately  around  us^ 
I  speak  only  of  what  we  can  effect  for  the  mass.  And  it  is  a 
deadening  thought  to  mental  ambition  that  the  circle  of  hap- 
piness we  can  create  is  formed  more  by  our  moral  than  our 

5 


66  EUGENE   ARAM. 

mental  qualities.  A  warm  heart,  though  accompanied  but  by 
a  mediocre  understanding,  is  even  more  likely  to  promote 
the  happiness  of  tliose  around,  than  are  the  absorbed  and  ab- 
stract, though  kindly,  powers  of  a  more  elevated  genius.  But 
[observing  Lester  about  to  interrupt  him]  let  us  turn  from 
this  topic,  —  let  us  turn  from  man's  weakness  to  the  glories 
of  the  Mother-Nature  from  which  he  sprang." 

And  kindling,  as  he  ever  did,  the  moment  he  approached  a 
subject  so  dear  to  his  studies,  Aram  now  spoke  of  the  stars 
which  began  to  sparkle  forth, — of  the  vast,  illimitable  career 
which  recent  science  had  opened  to  the  imagination,  and  of  the 
old,  bewildering,  yet  eloquent  theories  which  from  age  to  age 
had  at  once  misled  and  elevated  the  conjecture  of  past  sages. 
All  this  was  a  theme  to  which  his  listeners  loved  to  listen, 
and  Madeline  not  the  least.  Youth,  beauty,  pomp,  what  are 
these,  in  point  of  attraction,  to  a  woman's  heart  when  com- 
pared to  eloquence?  The  magic  of  the  tongue  is  the  most 
dangerous  of  all  spells! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   PRIVILEGE   OF    GENIUS.  LESTEr's    SATISFACTION   AT    THE 

ASPECT    OF    EVENTS.  HIS    CONVERSATION    WITH    WALTER.  

A    DISCOVERY. 

Ale.     I  am  for  Lidian  : 
This  accident,  no  doubt,  will  draw  him  from  his  hermit's  life ! 

Lis.     Spare  my  grief,  and  apprehend 
What  I  should  speak. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  :  The  Lover's  Progress. 

In  the  course  of  the  various  conversations  our  family  of 
Grassdale  enjoyed  with  their  singular  neighbor,  it  appeared 
that  his  knowledge  had  not  been  confined  to  the  closet;  at 
times  he  dropped  remarks  which  showed  that  he  had  been 
much  among  cities,  and  travelled  with  the  design,  or  at  least 


EUGENE   ARAM.  67 

with  the  vigilance,  of  the  observer.  But  he  did  not  love  to 
be  drawn  into  any  detailed  accounts  of  what  he  had  seen  or 
whither  he  had  been;  an  habitual,  though  a  gentle,  reserve 
kept  watch  over  the  past, —  not,  indeed,  that  character  of  re- 
serve which  excites  the  doubt,  but  which  inspires  the  interest. 
His  most  gloomy  moods  were  rather  abrupt  and  fitful  than 
morose,  and  his  usual  bearing  was  calm,  soft,  and  even  tender. 

There  is  a  certain  charm  about  great  superiority  of  intellect 
that  winds  into  deep  affections  which  a  much  more  constant 
and  even  amiability  of  manners  in  lesser  men  often  fails  to 
reach.  Genius  makes  many  enemies,  but  it  makes  sure 
friends, —  friends  who  forgive  much,  who  endure  long,  who 
exact  little :  they  partake  of  the  character  of  disciples  as  well 
as  friends.  There  lingers  about  the  human  heart  a  strong 
inclination  to  look  upward, —  to  revere;  in  this  inclination 
lies  the  source  of  religion,  of  loyalty,  and  also  of  the  worship 
and  immortality  which  are  rendered  so  cheerfully  to  the  great 
of  old.  And,  in  truth,  it  is  a  divine  pleasure !  Admiration 
seems  in  some  measure  to  appropriate  to  ourselves  the  qual- 
ities it  honors  in  others.  We  wed,  we  root  ourselves  to  the 
natures  we  so  love  to  contemplate,  and  their  life  grows  a  part 
of  our  own.  Thus  when  a  great  man,  who  has  engrossed  our 
thoughts,  our  conjectures,  our  homage,  dies,  a  gap  seems  sud- 
denly left  in  the  world ;  a  wheel  in  the  mechanism  of  our  own 
being  appears  abruptly  stilled;  a  portion  of  ourselves,  and 
not  our  worst  portion, —  for  how  many  pure,  high,  generous 
sentiments  it  contains, — dies  with  him!  Yes,  it  is  this  love, 
so  rare,  so  exalted,  and  so  denied  to  all  ordinary  men,  which 
is  the  especial  privilege  of  greatness,  whether  that  greatness 
be  shown  in  wisdom,  in  enterprise,  in  virtue,  or  even,  till  the 
world  learns  better,  in  the  more  daring  and  lofty  orde?  of 
crime.  A  Socrates  may  claim  it  to-day, —  a  Napoleon  to-mor- 
row; nay,  a  brigand  chief,  illustrious  in  the  circle  in  which 
he  lives,  may  call  it  forth  no  less  powerfully  than  the  gener- 
ous failings  of  a  Byron  or  the  sublime  excellence  of  the  greater 
Milton. 

Lester  saw  with  evident  complacency  the  passion  growing  up 
between  his  friend  and  his  daughter ;  he  looked  upon  it  as  a 


68  EUGENE   ARAM. 

tie  that  would  permanently  reconcile  Aram  to  the  hearth  of 
social  and  domestic  life, — a  tie  that  would  constitute  the  hap- 
piness of  his  daughter,  and  secure  to  himself  a  relation  in  the 
man  he  felt  most  inclined,  of  all  he  knew,  to  honor  and  es- 
teem. He  remarked  in  the  gentleness  and  calm  temper  of 
Aram  much  that  was  calculated  to  ensure  domestic  peace; 
and  knowing  the  peculiar  disposition  of  Madeline,  he  felt  that 
she  was  exactly  the  person,  not  only  to  bear  with  the  pecu- 
liarities of  the  student,  but  to  venerate  their  source.  In 
short,  the  more  he  contemplated  the  idea  of  this  alliance,  the 
more  he  was  charmed  with  its  probability. 

Musing  on  this  subject,  the  good  squire  was  one  day  walk- 
ing in  his  garden,  when  he  perceived  his  nephew  at  some  dis- 
tance, and  remarked  that  Walter,  on  seeing  him,  instead  of 
coming  forward  to  meet  him,  was  about  to  turn  down  an  alley 
in  an  opposite  direction. 

A  little  pained  at  this,  and  remembering  that  Walter  had  of 
late  seemed  estranged  from  himself  and  greatly  altered  from 
the  high  and  cheerful  spirits  natural  to  his  temper,  Lester 
called  to  his  nephew;  and  Walter,  reluctantly  and  slowly 
changing  his  purpose  of  avoidance,  advanced  and  met  him. 

"Why,  Walter!"  said  the  uncle,  taking  his  arm,  "this  is 
somewhat  unkind  to  shun  me :  are  you  engaged  in  any  pur- 
suit that  requires  secrecy  or  haste?" 

"No,  indeed,  sir,"  said  Walter,  with  some  embarrassment; 
"but  I  thought  you  seemed  wrapped  in  reflection,  and  would 
naturally  dislike  being  disturbed." 

"  Hem !  As  to  that,  I  have  no  reflections  I  wish  concealed 
from  you,  Walter,  or  which  might  not  be  benefited  by  your 
advice."  The  youth  pressed  his  uncle's  hand,  but  made  no 
reply;  and  Lester,  after  a  pause,  continued, — 

"I  am  delighted  to  think,  Walter,  that  you  seem  entirely 
to  have  overcome  the  unfavorable  prepossession  which  at  first 
you  testified  towards  our  excellent  neighbor.  And,  for  my 
part,  I  think  he  appears  to  be  especially  attracted  towards 
yourself, —  he  seeks  your  company;  and  to  me  he  always 
speaks  of  you  in  terms  which,  coming  from  such  a  quarter, 
give  me  the  most  lively  gratification." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  69 

Walter  bowed  his  head,  but  not  in  the  delighted  vanity 
with  which  a  young  man  generally  receives  the  assurance  of 
another's  praise. 

"I  own,"  renewed  Lester,  "that  I  consider  our  friendship 
with  Aram  one  of  the  most  fortunate  occurrences  in  my  life, 
—  at  least,"  added  he  with  a  sigh,  "of  late  years.  I  doubt 
not  but  you  must  have  observed  the  partiality  with  whicli 
our  dear  Madeline  evidently  regards  him,  and  yet  more  the 
attachment  to  her  which  breaks  forth  from  Aram,  in  spite  of 
his  habitual  reserve  and  self-control.  You  have  surely  noted 
this,  Walter?" 

"I  have,"  said  Walter,  in  a  low  tone,  and  turning  away  his 
head. 

"  And  doubtless  you  share  my  satisfaction.  It  happens  for- 
tunately now  that  ]\Iadeline  early  contracted  that  studious  and 
thoughtful  turn  which,  I  must  own,  at  one  time  gave  me  some 
uneasiness  and  vexation.  It  has  taught  her  to  appreciate  the 
value  of  a  mind  like  Aram's.  Formerly,  my  dear  boy,  I  hoped 
that  at  one  time  or  another  she  and  yourself  might  form  a 
dearer  connection  than  that  of  cousins.  But  I  was  disap- 
pointed, and  I  am  now  consoled.  And  indeed  I  think  there  is 
that  in  Ellinor  which  might  be  yet  more  calculated  to  render 
you  happy, — that  is,  if  the  bias  of  your  mind  should  ever  lean 
that  way." 

"  You  are  very  good, "  said  Walter,  bitterly.  "  I  own  I  am 
not  flattered  by  your  selection,  nor  do  I  see  why  the  plainer 
and  less  brilliant  of  the  two  sisters  must  necessarily  be  the 
fitter  for  me." 

"Nay,"  replied  Lester,  piqued,  and  jixstly  angry,  "I  do  not 
think,  even  if  Madeline  have  the  advantage  of  her  sister, 
that  you  can  find  any  fault  with  the  personal  or  mental  attrac- 
tions of  Ellinor.  But,  indeed,  this  is  not  a  matter  in  which 
relations  should  interfere.  I  am  far  from  any  wish  to  prevent 
you  from  choosing  throughout  the  world  any  one  whom  you 
may  prefer.  All  I  hope  is  that  your  future  wife  will  be  like 
Ellinor  in  kindness  of  heart  and  sweetness  of  temper." 

" From  choosing  throughout  the  world!"  repeated  Walter. 
"And  how  in  this  nook  am  I  to  see  the  world? " 


70  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"  Walter,  your  voice  is  reproachful !     Do  I  deserve  it  ?  " 

Walter  was  silent. 

"I  have  of  late  observed,"  continued  Lester,  "and  with 
wounded  feelings,  that  you  do  not  give  me  the  same  confidence 
or  meet  me  with  the  same  affection  that  you  once  delighted 
me  by  manifesting  towards  me.  I  know  of  no  cause  for  this 
change.  Do  not  let  us,  my  son, —  for  I  may  so  call  you, —  do 
not  let  us,  as  we  grow  older,  grow  also  more  apart.  Time 
divides  with  a  sufficient  demarcation  the  young  from  the  old : 
why  deepen  the  necessary  line  ?  You  know  well  that  I  have 
never  from  your  childhood  insisted  heavily  on  a  guardian's 
authority.  I  have  always  loved  to  contribute  to  your  enjoy- 
ments, and  shown  you  how  devoted  I  ana  to  your  interests,  by 
the  very  frankness  with  which  I  have  consulted  you  on  my 
own.  If  there  be  now  on  your  mind  any  secret  grievance  or 
any  secret  wish,  speak  it.  Walter,  you  are  alone  with  the 
friend  on  earth  who  loves  you  best." 

Walter  was  wholly  overcome  by  this  address;  he  pressed 
his  good  uncle's  hand  to  his  lips,  and  it  was  some  moments 
before  he  mustered  self -composure  sufficient  to  reply. 

"  You  have  ever,  ever  been  to  me  all  that  the  kindest  pa- 
rent, the  tenderest  friend,  could  have  been :  believe  me,  I  am 
not  ungrateful.  If  of  late  I  have  been  altered,  the  cause  is 
not  in  you.  Let  me  speak  freely :  you  encourage  me  to  do  so. 
I  am  young,  my  temper  is  restless ;  I  have  a  love  of  enterprise 
and  adventure :  is  it  not  natural  that  I  should  long  to  see  the 
world  ?  This  is  the  cause  of  my  late  abstraction  of  mind.  I 
have  now  told  you  all:  it  is  for  you  to  decide." 

Lester  looked  wistfully  on  his  nephew's  countenance  before 
he  replied. 

"It  is  as  I  gathered,"  said  he,  "from  various  remarks  which 
you  have  lately  let  fall.  I  cannot  blame  your  wish  to  leave 
us, — it  is  certainly  natural, —  nor  can  I  oppose  it.  Go, 
Walter,   when  you  will," 

The  young  man  turned  round  with  a  lighted  eye  and  flushed 
cheek. 

"And  why,  Walter,"  said  Lester,  interrupting  his  thanks, 
"why  this   surprise,  why  this  long  doubt  of  my  affection? 


EUGENE   ARAM.  71 

Could  you  believe  I  should  refuse  a  wish  that,  at  your  age,  I 
should  have  expressed  myself  ?  You  have  wronged  me ;  you 
might  have  saved  a  world  of  pain  to  us  both  by  acquainting 
me  with  your  desire  when  it  was  first  formed.  But  enough; 
I  see  Madeline  and  Aram  approach, —  let  us  join  them  now, 
and  to-morrow  we  will  arrange  the  time  and  method  of  your 
departure." 

"Forgive  me,  sir,"  said  Walter,  stopping  abruptly  as  the 
glow  faded  fi-om  his  cheek,  "I  have  not  yet  recovered  my- 
self; I  am  not  fit  for  other  society  than  yours.  Excuse  my 
joining  my  cousin  and  —  " 

"Walter!"  said  Lester,  also  stopping  short,  and  looking 
full  on  his  nephew,  "a  painful  thought  flashes  upon  me! 
Would  to  Heaven  I  may  be  wrong !  —  Have  you  ever  felt  for 
Madeline  more  tenderly  than  for  her  sister  ?  " 

Walter  literally  trembled  as  he  stood.  The  tears  rushed 
into  Lester's  eyes;  he  grasped  his  nephew's  hand  warmly, — 

"  God  comfort  thee,  my  poor  boy ! "  said  he,  with  great 
emotion;  "I  never  dreamed  of  this." 

Walter  felt  now  that  he  was  understood.  He  gratefully 
returned  the  pressure  of  his  uncle's  hand,  and  then,  withdraw- 
ing his  own,  darted  down  one  of  the  intersecting  walks,  and 
was  almost  instantly  out  of  sight. 


72  EUGENE   ARAM. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

THE   STATE   OF  WALTEr's    MIND.  AN  ANGLER   AND  A   MAN    OF 

THE   WORLD.  A   COMPANION   FOUND    FOR   WALTER. 

This  great  disease  for  love  I  dre,^ 

There  is  no  tongue  can  tell  the  wo ; 
I  love  the  love  that  loves  not  me, 

I  may  not  mend,  but  mourning  mo. 

Tlie  Mourning  Maiden. 

I  in  these  flowery  meads  would  be  ; 

These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me, 

To  whose  harmonious  bubbling  voice 

I  with  my  angle  would  rejoice.  —  Izaak  Walton. 

When  Walter  left  his  uncle  he  hurried,  scarcely  conscious 
of  his  steps,  towards  his  favorite  haunt  by  the  water-side. 
From  a  child  he  had  singled  out  that  scene  as  the  witness 
of  his  early  sorrows  or  boyish  schemes;  and  still  the  soli- 
tude of  the  place  cherished  the  habits  of  his  boyhood. 

Long  had  he,  unknown  to  himself,  nourished  an  attachment 
to  his  beautiful  cousin;  nor  did  he  awaken  to  the  secret  of  his 
heart  until,  with  an  agonizing  jealousy,  he  penetrated  the 
secret  at  her  own.  The  reader  has  doubtless  already  perceived 
that  it  was  this  jealousy  which  at  the  first  occasioned  Walter's 
dislike  to  Aram :  the  consolation  of  that  dislike  was  forbidden 
him  now.  The  gentleness  and  forbearance  of  the  student's 
deportment  had  taken  away  all  ground  of  offence ;  and  Walter 
had  sufficient  generosity  to  acknowledge  his  merits,  while 
tortured  by  their  effect.  Silently,  till  this  day,  he  had  gnawed 
his  heart,  and  found  for  its  despair  no  confidant  and  no  com- 
fort. The  only  wish  that  he  cherished  was  a  feverish  and 
gloomy  desire  to  leave  the  scene  which  witnessed  the  triumph 
of  his  rival.  Everything  around  had  become  hateful  to  his 
eyes,  and  a  curse  had  lighted  upon  the  face  of  home.     He 

1  Bear. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  73 

thought  now,  with  a  bitter  satisfaction,  that  his  escape  was  at 
hand ;  in  a  few  days  he  might  be  rid  of  the  gall  and  the  pang 
which  every  moment  of  his  stay  at  Grassdale  inflicted  upon 
him.  The  sweet  voice  of  Madeline  he  should  hear  no  more, 
subduing  its  silver  sound  for  his  rival's  ear;  no  more  he 
should  watch  apart,  and  himself  unheeded,  how  timidly  her 
glance  roved  in  search  of  another,  or  how  vividly  her  cheek 
flushed  when  the  step  of  that  happier  one  approached.  Many 
miles  would  at  least  shut  out  this  picture  from  his  view;  and 
in  absence  was  it  not  possible  that  he  might  teach  himself  to 
forget?  Thus  meditating,  he  arrived  at  the  banks  of  the  little 
brooklet,  and  was  awakened  from  his  revery  by  the  sound  of 
his  own  name.  He  started,  and  saw  the  old  corporal  seated 
on  the  stump  of  a  tree  and  busily  employed  in  fixing  to  his 
line  the  mimic  likeness  of  what  anglers,  and,  for  aught  we 
know,  the  rest  of  the  world,  call  the  "violet-fly." 

"Ha!  master,  at  my  day's  work,  you  see,  — fit  for  nothing 
else  now.  When  a  musket 's  half  worn  out,  schoolboys  buy 
it, — pop  it  at  sparrows.  I  be  like  the  musket!  But  never 
mind ;  I  have  not  seen  the  world  for  nothing.  We  get  recon- 
ciled to  all  things;  that's  my  way  —  augh!  Now,  sir,  you 
shall  watch  me  catch  the  finest  trout  you  have  seen  this  sum- 
mer; know  where  he  lies,  —  under  the  bush  yonder.  Whi-sh! 
sir,  whi-sh!  " 

The  corporal  now  gave  his  warrior  soul  up  to  the  due  guid- 
ance of  the  violet-fly.  Now  he  whipped  it  lightly  on  the 
wave;  now  he  slid  it  coquettishly  along  the  surface;  now  it 
floated,  like  an  unconscious  beauty,  carelessly  with  the  tide ; 
and  now,  like  an  artful  prude,  it  affected  to  loiter  by  the  way, 
or  to  steal  into  designing  obscurity  under  the  shade  of  some 
overhanging  bank.  But  none  of  these  manoeuvres  captivated 
the  wary  old  trout  on  whose  acquisition  the  corporal  had  set 
his  heart;  and,  what  was  especially  provoking,  the  angler 
could  see  distinctly  the  dark  outline  of  the  intended  victim 
as  it  lay  at  the  bottom,  —  like  some  well-regulated  bachelor 
who  eyes  from  afar  the  charms  he  has  discreetly  resolved  to 
neglect. 

The  corporal  waited  till  he  could  no  longer  blind  himself 


74  EUGENE   ARAM. 

to  the  displeasing  fact  that  the  violet-fly  was  wholly  ineffica- 
cious; he  then  drew  up  his  line,  and  replaced  the  contemned 
beauty  of  the  violet-fly  with  the  novel  attractions  of  the 
yellow -dun. 

"Now,  sir,"  whispered  he,  lifting  up  his  finger  and  nodding 
sagaciously  to  Walter.  Softly  dropped  the  yellow-dun  on  the 
water,  and  swiftly  did  it  glide  before  the  gaze  of  the  latent 
trout.  And  now  the  trout  seemed  aroused  from  his  apathy; 
behold,  he  moved  forward,  balancing  himself  upon  his  fins; 
now  he  slowly  ascended  towards  the  surface :  you  might  see 
all  the  speckles  of  his  coat.     The  corporal's  heart  stood  still, 

—  he  is  now  at  a  convenient  distance  from  the  yellow-dun;  lo, 
he  surveys  it  steadfastly;  he  ponders,  he  see-saws  himself  to 
and  fro.  The  yellow-dun  sails  away  in  affected  indifference : 
that  indifference  whets  the  appetite  of  the  hesitating  gazer; 
he  darts  forward,  he  is  opposite  the  yellow-dun,  he  pushes  his 
nose  against  it  with  an  eager  rudeness,  he  —  No,  he  does  not 
bite,  he  recoils,  he  gazes  again  with  surprise  and  suspicion  on 
the  little  charmer;  he  fades  back  slowly  into  the  deeper 
water,  and  then,  suddenly  turning  his  tail  towards  the  disap- 
pointed bait,  he  makes  off  as  fast  as  he  can,  —  yonder,  yonder, 

—  and  disappears!  No,  that's  he  leaping  yonder  from  the 
wave.  Jupiter,  what  a  noble  fellow !  What  leaps  he  at  ?  A 
real  fly !     "  D  —  n  his  eyes !  "  growled  the  corporal. 

"You  might  have  caught  him  with  a  minnow,"  said  Walter, 
speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"Minnow!"  repeated  the  corporal,  gruffly;  "ask  your  hon- 
or's pardon.  Minnow!  —  I  have  fished  with  the  yellow-dun 
these  twenty  years,  and  never  knew  it  fail  before.     Minnow ! 

—  baugh!  But  ask  pardon;  your  honor  is  very  welcome  to 
fish  with  a  minnow,  if  you  please  it." 

"  Thank  you.  Bunting.  And  pray  what  sport  have  you  had 
to-day  ?  " 

"Oh!  good,  good,"  quoth  the  corporal,  snatching  up  his 
basket  and  closing  the  cover,  lest  the  young  squire  should  pry 
into  it.  No  man  is  more  tenacious  of  his  secrets  than  your 
true  angler.  "Sent  the  best  home  two  hours  ago, — one 
weighed  three  pounds,  on  the  faith  of  a  man.     Indeed,  I  'm 


EUGENE   ARAM.  75 

satisfied  now;  time  to  give  up;"  and  the  corporal  began  to 
disjoint  his  rod. 

"Ah,  sir!"  said  he,  with  a  half  sigh,  "a  pretty  river  this, 
—  don't  mean  to  say  it  is  not;  but  the  river  Lea  for  my 
money.  You  know  the  Lea  ?  Not  a  morning's  walk  from 
Lunnon,  IVIary  Gibson,  my  first  sweetheart,  lived  by  the 
bridge  (caught  such  a  trout  there  by  the  by!);  had  beautiful 
eyes, —  black,  round  as  a  cherry;  five  feet  eight  without 
shoes;  might  have  'listed  in  the  Forty-second." 

"Who,  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  smiling, —  "the  lady,  or  the 
trout  ?  " 

"  Augh !  baugh !  what  ?  Oh,  laughing  at  me,  your  honor ! 
you  're  welcome,  sir.  Love  's  a  silly  thing, — know  the  world 
now;  have  not  fallen  in  love  these  ten  years.  I  doubt  —  no 
offence,  sir,  no  offence  —  I  doubt  whether  your  honor  and  Miss 
Ellinor  can  say  as  much." 

"I  and  Miss  Ellinor!  You  forget  yourself  strangely,  Bunt- 
ing," said  Walter,  coloring  with  anger. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  beg  pardon, —  rough  soldier;  lived  away 
from  the  world  so  long,  words  slipped  out  of  my  mouth, — 
absent  without  leave." 

"But  why,"  said  Walter,  smothering  or  conquering  his 
vexation, —  "why  couple  me  with  Miss  Ellinor?  Did  you 
imagine  that  we  —  we  were  in  love  with  each  other  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  sir,  and  if  I  did,  't  is  no  more  than  my  neighbors 
imagine  too." 

"Humph!  Your  neighbors  are  very  silly,  then,  and  very 
wrong. " 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  again, —  always  getting  askew.  Indeed, 
some  did  say  it  was  Miss  Madeline;  but  I  says,  says  I,  '  No! 
I'm  a  man  of  the  world,  —  see  through  a  millstone:  Miss 
Madeline  's  too  easy  like ;  Miss  Nelly  blushes  when  he  speaks. ' 
Scarlet  is  Love's  regimentals, —  it  was  ours  in  the  Forty- 
second,  edged  with  yellow;  pepper-and-salt  pantaloons!  For 
my  part  I  think —  But  I've  no  business  to  think,  howsom- 
ever  —  baugh !  " 

"  Pray  what  do  you  think,  Mr.  Bunting  ?  Why  do  you 
hesitate  ?  " 


76  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"'Fraid  of  offence.  But  I  do  think  that  Master  Aram  — 
your  honor  understands  —  Howsomever,  squire's  daughter 
too  great  a  match  for  such  as  he ! " 

Walter  did  not  answer;  and  the  garrulous  old  soldier,  who 
had  been  the  young  man's  playmate  and  companion  since 
Walter  was  a  boy,  and  was  therefore  accustomed  to  the  fa- 
miliarity with  which  he  now  spoke,  continued,  mingling  with 
his  abrupt  prolixity  an  occasional  shrewdness  of  observation 
which  showed  that  he  was  no  inattentive  commentator  on  the 
little  and  quiet  world  around  him,  — 

*'  Free  to  confess,  Squire  Walter,  that  I  don't  quite  like  this 
larned  man  as  much  as  the  rest  of  'em;  something  queer  about 
him;  can't  see  to  the  bottom  of  him;  don't  think  he's  quite 
so  meek  and  lamblike  as  he  seems.  Once  saw  a  calm  dead 
pool  in  foreign  parts;  peered  down  into  it;  by  little  and  little 
my  eye  got  used  to  it;  saw  something  dark  at  the  bottom; 
stared  and  stared  —  by  Jupiter !  a  great  big  alligator !  Walked 
off  immediately;  never  liked  quiet  pools  since  —  augh,  no!" 

"An  argument  against  quiet  pools,  perhaps,  Bunting,  but 
scarcely  against  quiet  people." 

"Don't  know  as  to  that,  your  honor, —  much  of  a  muchness. 
I  have  seen  Master  Aram,  demure  as  he  looks,  start,  and  bite 
his  lip,  and  change  color,  and  frown, —  he  has  an  ugly  frown, 
I  can  tell  ye,  — when  he  thought  no  one  nigh.  A  man  who 
gets  in  a  passion  with  himself  may  be  soon  out  of  temper 
with  others.  Free  to  confess,  I  should  not  like  to  see  him 
married  to  that  stately,  beautiful  young  lady;  but  they  do 
gossip  about  it  in  the  village.  If  it  is  not  true,  better  put  the 
squire  on  his  guard, —  false  rumors  often  beget  truths.  Beg 
pardon,  your  honor,  no  business  of  mine  —  baugh!  But  I 'm 
a  lone  man  who  have  seen  the  world,  and  I  thinks  on  the 
things  around  me,  and  I  turns  over  the  quid,  now  on  this 
side,  now  on  the  other, —  'tis  my  way,  sir, — and —  But  I 
offend  your  honor." 

"Not  at  all, —  I  know  you  are  an  honest  man.  Bunting,  and 
well  affected  to  our  family;  at  the  same  time,  it  is  neither 
prudent  nor  charitable  to  speak  harshly  of  our  neighbors  with- 
out sufficient  cause.     And  really  you  seem  to  me  to  be  a  little 


EUGENE   ARAM.  77 

hasty  in  your  judgment  of  a  man  so  inoffensive  in  his  habits 
and  so  justly  and  generally  esteemed  as  Mr.  Aram." 

"May  be,  sir,  may  be;  very  right  what  you  say.  But  I 
thinks  what  I  thinks  all  the  same;  and,  indeed,  it  is  a 
thing  that  puzzles  me  how  that  strange-looking  vagabond  as 
frighted  the  ladies  so,  and  who,  Miss  Nelly  told  me,  — 
for  she  saw  them  in  his  pocket, — carried  pistols  about  him, 
as  if  he  had  been  among  cannibals  and  Hottentots,  instead 
of  the  peaceablest  county  that  man  ever  set  foot  in,  should 
boast  of  his  friendship  with  this  larned  scholard,  and  pass  1 
dare  swear  a  whole  night  in  his  house !  Birds  of  a  feather 
flock  together  —  augh !  —  sir !  " 

"  A  man  cannot  surely  be  answerable  for  the  respectability 
of  all  his  acquaintances,  even  though  he  feel  obliged  to  offer 
them  the  accommodation  of  a  night's  shelter." 

"  Baugh !  "  grunted  the  corporal.  "  Seen  the  world,  sir, 
seen  the  world, — young  gentlemen  are  always  so  good-na- 
tured; 'tis  a  pity  that  the  more  one  sees  the  more  suspicious 
one  grows.  One  does  not  have  gumption  till  one  has  been 
properly  cheated;  one  must  be  made  a  fool  very  often  in  order 
not  to  be  fooled  at  last !  " 

"Well,  corporal,  I  shall  now  have  opportunities  enough  of 
profiting  by  experience.  I  am  going  io  leave  Grassdale  in  a 
few  days,  and  learn  suspicion  and  wisdom  in  the  great  world." 

"Augh!  baugh!  what!"  cried  the  corporal,  starting  from 
the  contemplative  air  which  he  had  hitherto  assumed,  "the 
great  world  ?  How  ?  when  ?  going  away  ?  Who  goes  with 
your  honor  ?  " 

"My  honor's  self;  I  have  no  companion,  unless  you  like  to 
attend  me,"  said  Walter,  jestingly;  but  the  corporal  affected, 
with  his  natural  shrewdness,  to  take  the  proposition  in 
earnest. 

"I!  Your  honor 's  too  good;  and  indeed,  though  I  say  it, 
sir,  you  might  do  worse.  Not  but  what  I  should  be  sorry 
to  leave  nice  snug  home  here,  and  this  stream,  though  the 
trout  have  been  shy  lately, — ah!  that  was  a  mistake  of  yours, 
sir,  recommending  the  minnow,  —  and  neighbor  Dealtry, 
though  his  ale  's  not  so  good  as  'twas  last  year;  and  —  and. — 


78  EUGENE   ARAM. 

But,  in  short,  I  always  loved  your  honor, —  dandled  you  on 
my  knees;  you  recollect  the  broadsword  exercise?  —  one,  two, 
three  —  augh !  baugh !  And  if  your  honor  really  is  going,  why, 
rather  than  you  should  want  a  proper  person,  who .  knows  the 
world,  to  brush  your  coat,  polish  your  shoes,  give  you  good 
advice, — on  the  faith  of  a  man,  I  '11  go  with  you  myself!  " 

This  alacrity  on  the  part  of  the  corporal  was  far  from  dis- 
pleasing to  Walter.  The  proposal  he  had  at  first  made  un- 
thinkingly, he  now  seriously  thought  advisable ;  and  at  length 
it  was  settled  that  the  corporal  should  call  the  next  morning 
at  the  manor-house,  and  receive  instructions  to  conclude  ar- 
rangements for  the  journey,  not  forgetting,  as  the  sagacious 
Bunting  delicately  insinuated,  "the  wee  settlements  as  to 
wages  and  board-wages, —  more  a  matter  of  form,  like,  than 
anything  else,  augh !  " 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE  LOVERS. THE  ENCOUNTER   AND  QUARREL  OF  THE  RIVALS. 

Two  such  I  saw,  what  time  the  labored  ox 

In  his  loose  traces  from  the  furrow  came.  —  Comus. 

Pedro.     Now  do  me  uoble  right. 
Rod.        I  '11  satisfy  you, 
But  not  by  the  sword. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher:   The  Pilgrim. 

While  Walter  and  the  corporal  enjoyed  the  above  conversa- 
tion, Madeline  and  Aram,  whom  Lester  left  to  themselves, 
were  pursuing  their  walk  along  the  solitary  fields.  Their 
love  had  passed  from  the  eye  to  the  lip,  and  now  found  ex- 
pression in  words. 

"Observe,"  said  he,  as  the  light  touch  of  one  who  he  felt 
loved  him  entirely,  rested  on  his  arm,  —  "  observe,  as  the  later 
summer  now  begins  to  breathe  a  more  various  and  mellow 
glory  into  the  landscape,  how  singularly  pure  and  lucid  the 
atmosphere  becomes.    When,  two  months  ago,  in  the  full  flush 


EUGENE   ARAM.  79 

of  June,  I  walked  through  these  fields,  a  gray  mist  hid  yon 
distant  hills  and  the  far  forest  from  my  view.  Now,  with 
what  a  transparent  stillness  the  whole  expanse  of  scenery 
spreads  itself  before  us !  And  such,  Madeline,  is  the  change 
that  has  come  over  myself  since  that  time.  Then  if  I  looked 
beyond  the  limited  present,  all  was  dim  and  indistinct.  Now 
the  mist  has  faded  away,  the  broad  future  extends  before  me 
calm  and  bright  with  the  hope  which  is  borrowed  from  your 
love!" 

We  will  not  tax  the  patience  of  the  reader,  who  seldom  en- 
ters with  keen  interest  into  the  mere  dialogue  of  love,  with 
the  blushing  Madeline's  reply,  or  with  all  the  soft  vows  and 
tender  confessions  which  the  rich  poetry  of  Aram's  mind  made 
yet  more  delicious  to  the  ear  of  his  dreaming  and  devoted 
mistress. 

"There  is  one  circumstance,"  said  Aram,  "which  casts  a 
momentary  shade  on  the  happiness  I  enjoy:  my  Madeline 
probably  guesses  its  nature.  I  regret  to  see  that  the  blessing 
of  your  love  must  be  purchased  by  the  misery  of  another,  and 
that  other  the  nephew  of  my  kind  friend.  You  have  doubtless 
observed  the  melancholy  of  Walter  Lester,  and  have  long 
since  known  its  origin." 

"Indeed,  Eugene,"  answered  Madeline,  "it  has  given  me 
great  pain  to  note  what  you  refer  to,  for  it  would  be  a  false 
delicacy  in  me  to  deny  that  I  have  observed  it.  But  Walter 
is  young  and  high-spirited ;  nor  do  I  think  he  is  of  a  nature 
to  love  long  where  there  is  no  return." 

"And  what,"  said  Aram,  sorrowfully, —  "what  deduction 
from  reason  can  ever  apply  to  love  ?  Love  is  a  very  contra- 
diction of  all  the  elements  of  our  ordinary  nature;  it  makes 
the  proud  man  meek,  tlie  cheerful,  sad,  the  high-spirited, 
tame ;  our  strongest  resolutions,  our  hardiest  energy,  fail  be- 
fore it.  Believe  me,  you  cannot  prophesy  of  its  future  effect 
in  a  man  from  any  knowledge  of  his  past  character.  I  grieve 
to  think  that  the  blow  falls  upon  one  in  early  youth,  ere  the 
world's  disappointments  have  blunted  the  heart,  or  the  world's 
numerous  interests  have  multiplied  its  resources.  Men's 
minds  have  been  turned  when  they  have  not  well  sifted  the 


80  EUGENE   ARAM. 

cause  themselves,  and  their  fortunes  marred,  by  one  stroke 
on  the  affections  of  their  youth.  So  at  least  have  I  read, 
Madeline,  and  so  marked  in  others.  For  myself,  I  knew 
nothing  of  love  in  its  reality  till  I  knew  you.  But  who  can 
know  you,  and  not  sympathize  with  him  who  has  lost  you  ?  " 

"Ah,  Eugene!  you  at  least  overrate  the  influence  which  love 
produces  on  men,  A  little  resentment  and  a  little  absence  will 
soon  cure  my  cousin  of  an  ill-placed  and  ill-requited  attach- 
ment.    You  do  not  think  how  easy  it  is  to  forget." 

"Eorget!"  said  Aram,  stopping  abruptly;  "ay,  forget, —  it 
is  a  strange  truth!  we  do  forget!  The  summer  passes  over 
the  furrow,  and  the  corn  springs  up;  the  sod  forgets  the  flower 
of  the  past  year;  the  battle-field  forgets  the  blood  that  has 
been  spilt  upon  its  turf;  the  sky  forgets  the  storm;  and  the 
water  the  noon-day  sun  that  slept  upon  its  bosom.  All  Na- 
ture preaches  forgetfulness.  Its  very  order  is  the  progress  of 
oblivion.  And  I  —  I  —  give  me  your  hand,  Madeline, —  I,  ha  ! 
ha !  I  forget  too !  " 

As  Aram  spoke  thus  wildly,  his  countenance  worked;  but 
his  voice  was  slow  and  scarcely  audible,  —  he  seemed  rather 
conferring  with  himself  than  addressing  Madeline.  But  when 
his  words  ceased,  and  he  felt  the  soft  hand  of  his  betrothed, 
and,  turning,  saw  her  anxious  and  wistful  eyes  fixed  in  alarm, 
yet  in  all  unsuspecting  confidence,  on  his  face,  his  features 
relaxed  into  their  usual  serenity,  and  kissing  the  hand  he 
clasped,  he  continued,  in  a  collected  and  steady  tone, — 

"Forgive  me,  ray  sweetest  Madeline.  These  fitful  and 
strange  moods  sometimes  come  upon  me  yet.  I  have  been  so 
long  in  the  habit  of  pursuing  any  train  of  thought,  however 
wild,  that  presents  itself  to  my  mind  that  I  cannot  easily 
break  it,  even  m  your  presence.  All  studious  men  —  the  twi- 
light eremites  of  books  and  closets  —  contract  this  ungraceful 
custom  of  soliloquy.  You  know  our  abstraction  is  a  common 
jest  and  proverb:  you  must  laugh  me  out  of  it.  But  stay, 
dearest,  —  there  is  a  rare  herb  at  your  feet;  let  me  gather  it. 
So,  do  you  note  its  leaves,  this  bending  and  silver  flower  ? 
Let  us  rest  on  this  bank,  and  I  will  tell  you  of  its  qualities. 
Beautiful  as  it  is,  it  has  a  poison." 


v^ 


/ 


EUGENE   ARAM.  81 

The  place  in  which  the  lovers  rested,  is  one  which  the  vil- 
lagers to  this  clay  call  "The  Lady's  Seat;"  for  Madeline, 
whose  history  is  fondly  preserved  in  that  district,  was  after- 
wards wont  constantly  to  repair  to  that  bank  (during  a  short 
absence  of  her  lover,  hereafter  to  be  noted),  and  subsequent 
events  stamped  with  interest  every  spot  she  was  known  to 
have  favored  with  resort.  And  when  the  flower  had  been 
duly  conned,  and  the  study  dismissed,  Aram,  to  whom  all  the 
signs  of  the  seasons  were  familiar,  pointed  to  her  the  thou- 
sand symptoms  of  the  month  which  are  unheeded  by  less  ob- 
servant eyes, —  not  forgetting,  as  they  thus  reclined,  their 
hands  clasped  together,  to  couple  each  remark  with  some  allu- 
sion to  his  love,  or  some  deduction  which  heightened  compli- 
ment into  poetry.  He  bade  her  mark  the  light  gossamer  as 
it  floated  on  the  air :  now  soaring  high,  high  into  the  translu- 
cent atmosphere;  now  suddenly  stooping,  and  sailing  away 
beneath  the  boughs,  which  ever  and  anon  it  hung  with  a  silken 
web  that  by  the  next  morn  would  glitter  with  a  thousand  dew- 
drops.  "And  so,"  said  he,  fancifully,  "does  Love  lead  forth 
its  numberless  creations,  making  the  air  its  path  and  empire, 
.  —  ascending  aloft  at  its  wild  will,  hanging  its  meshes  on 
every  bough,  and  bidding  the  common  grass  break  into  a  fairy 
lustre  at  the  beam  of  the  daily  sun !  " 

He  pointed  to  her  the  spot  where,  in  the  silent  brake,  the 
harebells,  now  waxing  rare  and  few,  yet  lingered,  or  where 
the  mystic  ring  on  the  soft  turf  conjured  up  the  associations 
of  Oberon  and  his  train.  That  superstition  gave  license  and 
play  to  his  full  memory  and  glowing  fancy;  and  Shakspeare, 
Spenser,  Ariosto,  the  magic  of  each  mighty  master  of  Fairy 
Eealm,  he  evoked,  and  poured  into  her  transported  ear.  It 
was  precisely  such  arts,  which  to  a  gayer  and  more  worldly  na- 
ture than  Madeline's  might  have  seemed  but  wearisome,  that  ar- 
rested and  won  her  imaginative  and  high-wrought  mind.  And 
thus  he,  who  to  another  might  have  proved  but  the  retired 
and  moody  student,  became  to  her  the  very  being  of  whom 
her  "maiden  meditation"  had  dreamed, —  the  master  and 
magician  of  her  fate. 

Aram  did  not  return  to  the  house  with  Madeline;  he  accom- 

k]  LtUUAl^V 

X 


82  EUGENE  ARAM. 

panied  lier  to  the  garden-gate,  and  then,  taking  leave  of  her, 
bent  his  way  homeward.  He  had  gained  the  entrance  of  the 
little  valley  that  led  to  his  abode,  when  he  saw  "Walter  cross 
his  path  at  a  short  distance.  His  heart,  naturally  susceptible 
to  kindly  emotion,  smote  him  as  he  remarked  the  moody  list- 
lessness  of  the  young  man's  step,  and  recalled  the  buoyant 
lightness  it  was  once  wont  habitually  to  wear.  He  quickened 
his  pace,  and  joined  Walter  before  the  latter  was  aware  of  his 
presence. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  he  mildly;  "  if  you  are  going  my  way, 
give  me  the  benefit  of  your  company." 

"My  path  lies  yonder,"  replied  Walter,  somewhat  sullenly; 
"I  regret  that  it  is  different  from  yours." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Aram,  "I  can  delay  my  return  home, 
and  will,  with  your  leave,  intrude  my  society  upon  you  for 
some  few  minutes." 

Walter  bowed  his  head  in  reluctant  assent.  They  walked 
on  for  some  moments  without  speaking,  the  one  unwilling, 
the  other  seeking  an  occasion,  to  break  the  silence. 

"This,  to  my  mind,"  said  Aram,  at  length,  "is  the  most 
pleasing  landscape  in  the  whole  country :  observe  the  bashful 
water  stealing  away  among  the  woodlands.  Methinks  the 
wave  is  endowed  with  an  instinctive  wisdom  that  it  thus 
shuns  the  world." 

"Rather,"  said  Walter,  "with  the  love  for  change  which 
exists  everywhere  in  Nature,  it  does  not  seek  the  shade  un- 
til it  has  passed  by  '  towered  cities '  and  '  the  busy  hum  of 
men.' " 

"I  admire  the  shrewdness  of  your  reply,"  rejoined  Aram; 
"  but  note  how  far  more  pure  and  lovely  are  its  waters  in  these 
retreats,  than  when  washing  the  walls  of  the  reeking  town, 
receiving  into  its  breast  the  taint  of  a  thousand  pollutions, 
vexed  by  the  sound  and  stench  and  unholy  perturbation  of 
men's  dwelling-place.  Now  it  glasses  only  what  is  high  or 
beautiful  in  Nature, —  the  stars  or  the  leafy  banks.  The  wind 
that  ruffles  it  is  clothed  with  perfumes;  the  rivulet  that  swells 
it  descends  from  the  everlasting  monntains,  or  is  formed  by 
the  rains  of  heaven.     Believe  me,  it  is  the  type  of  a  life  that 


EUGENE   ARAM.  83 

glides  into  solitude  from  the  weariness  and  fretful  turmoil  of 
the  world. 

" '  No  flattery,  hate,  or  envy  lodgeth  there ; 

There  no  suspicion  walled  in  proved  steel, 
Yet  fearful  of  the  arms  herself  doth  wear ; 

Pride  is  not  there ;  no  tyrant  there  we  feel ! '  "  1 

"I  will  not  cope  with  you  in  simile  or  in  poetry,"  said 
Walter,  as  his  lip  curved ;  "  it  is  enough  for  me  to  think  that 
life  should  be  spent  in  action.  I  hasten  to  prove  if  my  judg- 
ment be  erroneous." 

"  Are  you,  then,  about  to  leave  us  ?  "  inquired  Aram. 

"Yes,  within  a  few  days." 

"Indeed!     I  regret  to  hear  it." 

The  answer  sounded  jarringly  on  the  irritated  nerves  of  the 
disappointed  rival. 

"  You  do  me  more  honor  than  I  desire, "  said  he,  "  in  inter- 
esting yourself,  however  lightly,  in  my  schemes  or  fortune." 

"Young  man,"  replied  Aram,  coldly,  "I  never  see  the  im- 
petuous and  yearning  spirit  of  youth  without  a  certain,  and,  it 
may  be,  a  painful  interest.  How  feeble  is  the  chance  that  its 
hopes  will  be  fulfilled!  Enough  if  it  lose  not  all  its  loftier 
aspirings  as  well  as  its  brighter  expectations." 

Nothing  more  aroused  the  proud  and  fiery  temper  of  Walter 
Lester  than  the  tone  of  superior  wisdom  and  superior  age 
which  his  rival  sometimes  assumed  towards  him.  More  and 
more  displeased  with  his  present  companion,  he  answered,  in 
no  conciliatory  tone,  "  I  cannot  but  consider  the  warning  and 
the  fears  of  one,  neither  my  relation  nor  my  friend,  in  the 
light  of  a  gratuitous  affront." 

Aram  smiled  as  he  answered, — 

"There  is  no  occasion  for  resentment.  Preserve  this  hot 
spirit  and  this  high  self-confidence  till  you  return  again  to 
these  scenes,  and  I  shall  be  at  once  satisfied  and  corrected." 

"Sir,"  said  Walter,  coloring,  and  irritated  more  by  the 
smile  than  the  words  of  his  rival,  "  I  am  not  aware  by  what 
right  or  on  what  ground  you  assume  towards  me  the  superi- 

*  Phineas  Fletcher. 


84  EUGENE   ARAM. 

ority,  not  only  of  admonition,  but  reproof!  My  uncle's  pref- 
erence towards  you  gives  you  no  authority  over  me.  That 
preference  I  do  not  pretend  to  share."  He  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment, thinking  Aram  might  hasten  to  reply ;  but  as  the  stu- 
dent walked  on  with  his  usual  calmness  of  demeanor,  he 
added,  stung  by  the  indifference,  which  he  attributed,  not  al- 
together without  truth,  to  disdain, —  "And  since  you  have 
taken  upon  yourself  to  caution  me  and  to  forebode  my  inabil- 
ity to  resist  the  contamination,  as  you  would  term  it,  of  the 
world,  I  tell  you  that  it  may  be  happy  for  you  to  bear  so  clear 
a  conscience,  so  untouched  a  spirit,  as  that  which  I  now  boast, 
and  with  which  I  trust  in  God  and  my  own  soul  I  shall  return 
to  my  birthplace.  It  is  not  the  holy  only  that  love  solitude; 
and  men  may  shim  the  world  from  another  motive  than  that 
of  philosophy." 

It  was  now  Aram's  turn  to  feel  resentment;  and  this  was 
indeed  an  insinuation  not  only  unwarrantable  in  itself,  but 
one  which  a  man  of  so  peaceable  and  guileless  a  life,  affecting 
even  an  extreme  and  rigid  austerity  of  morals,  might  well  be 
tempted  to  repel  with  scorn  and  indignation, —  and  Aram, 
however  meek  and  forbearing  in  general,  testified  in  this  in- 
stance that  his  wonted  gentleness  arose  from  no  lack  of  man's 
natural  spirit.  He  laid  his  hand  commandingly  on  young 
Lester's  shoulder,  and  surveyed  his  countenance  with  a  dark 
and  menacing  frown. 

"Boy!"  said  he,  "were  there  meaning  in  your  words,  I 
should  (mark  me!)  avenge  the  insult;  as  it  is,  I  despise  it. 
Go!" 

So  high  and  lofty  was  Aram's  manner,  so  majestic  was  the 
sternness  of  his  rebuke  and  the  dignity  of  his  bearing,  as, 
waving  his  hand,  he  now  turned  away,  that  Walter  lost  his 
self-possession  and  stood  fixed  to  the  spot,  abashed,  and  hum- 
bled from  his  late  anger.  It  was  not  till  Aram  had  moved 
with  a  slow  step  several  paces  backward  towards  his  home 
that  the  bold  and  haughty  temper  of  the  young  man  re- 
turned to  his  aid.  Ashamed  of  himself  for  the  momentary 
weakness  he  had  betrayed,  and  burning  to  redeem  it,  he  has- 
tened after  the  stately  form  of  his  rival,  and,  planting  him- 


EUGENE   ARAM.  85 

self   full  in  his  path,   said,   in  a  voice  half-choked  with  con- 
tending emotions, — 

"Hold!  You  have  given  me  the  opportunity  I  have  long 
desired;  you  yourself  have  now  broken  that  peace  which  ex- 
isted between  us,  and  which  to  me  was  more  bitter  than 
wormwood.  You  have  dared  —  yes,  dared  —  to  use  threaten- 
ing language  towards  me !  I  call  on  you  to  fulfil  your  threat. 
I  tell  you  that  I  meant,  I  desired,  I  thirsted,  to  affront  you. 
Now  resent  my  purposed,  premeditated  affront  as  you  will 
and  can." 

There  was  something  remarkable  in  the  contrasted  figures 
of  the  rivals  as  they  now  stood  fronting  each  other.  The 
elastic  and  vigorous  form  of  Walter  Lester,  his  sparkling 
eyes,  his  sunburnt  and  glowing  cheek,  his  clenched  hands,  and 
his  whole  frame  alive  and  eloquent  with  the  energy,  the  heat, 
the  hasty  courage,  and  fiery  spirit  of  youth;  on  the  other 
hand,  the  bending  frame  of  the  student  gradually  rising  into 
the  dignity  of  its  full  height,  his  pale  cheek  in  which  the  wan 
hues  neither  deepened  nor  waned,  his  large  eye  raised  to  meet 
Walter's,  bright,  steady,  and  yet  how  calm!  Nothing  weak, 
nothing  irresolute,  could  be  traced  in  that  form  or  that  lofty 
countenance ;  yet  all  resentment  had  vanished  from  his  aspect. 
He  seemed  at  once  tranquil  and  prepared. 

"You  designed  to  affront  me! "  said  he:  "it  is  well,  it  is  a 
noble  confession;  and  wherefore?  What  do  you  propose  to 
gain  by  it  ?  A  man  whose  whole  life  is  peace  you  would  pro- 
,voke  to  outrage.  Would  there  be  triumph  in  this,  or  dis- 
grace ?  A  man  whom  your  uncle  honors  and  loves,  you  would 
insult  without  cause,  you  would  waylay,  you  would,  after 
watching  and  creating  your  opportunity,  entrap  into  defending 
himself!  Is  this  worthy  of  that  high  spirit  of  which  you 
boasted  ?  Is  this  worthy  a  generous  anger  or  a  noble  hatred  ? 
Away!  you  malign  yourself.  I  shrink  from  no  quarrel, — 
why  should  1  ?  I  have  nothing  to  fear:  my  nerves  are  firm; 
my  heart  is  faithful  to  my  will ;  my  habits  may  have  dimin- 
ished my  strength,  but  it  is  yet  equal  to  that  of  most  men. 
As  to  the  weapons  of  the  world,  they  fall  not  to  my  use.  I 
might  be  excused  by  the  most  punctilious  for  rejecting  what 


86  EUGENE   ARAM. 

becomes  neither  my  station  nor  my  habits  of  life;  but  I 
learned  thus  much  from  books  long  since;  'Hold  thyself  pre- 
pared for  all  things.'  I  am  so  prepared.  And  as  I  command 
the  spirit,  I  lack  not  the  skill,  to  defend  myself  or  return  the 
hostility  of  another."  As  Aram  thus  said,  he  drew  a  pistol 
from  his  bosom  and  pointed  it  leisurely  towards  a  tree  at  the 
distance  of  some  paces. 

"  Look,"  said  he :  "you  note  that  small  discolored  and  white 
stain  in  the  bark, — you  can  but  just  observe  it;  he  who  can 
send  a  bullet  through  that  spot  need  not  fear  to  meet  the 
quarrel  which  he  seeks  to  avoid." 

Walter  turned  mechanically,  and  indignant,  though  silent, 
towards  the  tree.  Aram  fired,  and  the  ball  penetrated  the 
centre  of  the  stain.  He  then  replaced  the  pistol  in  his  bosom 
and  said, — 

"Early  in  life  I  had  many  enemies,  and  I  taught  myself 
these  arts.  From  habit,  I  still  bear  about  me  the  weapons  I 
trust  and  pray  I  may  never  have  occasion  to  use.  But  to  re- 
turn. I  have  offended  you;  I  have  incurred  your  hatred, — 
why  ?    What  are  my  sins  ?  " 

"Do  you  ask  the  cause?"  said  Walter,  speaking  between 
his  ground  teeth.  "  Have  you  not  traversed  my  views,  blighted 
my  hopes,  charmed  away  from  me  the  affections  which  were 
more  to  me  than  the  world,  and  driven  me  to  wander  from  my 
home  with  a  crushed  spirit  and  a  cheerless  heart  ?  Are 
these  no  causes  for  hate  ? " 

"  Have  I  done  this  ? "  said  Aram,  recoiling,  and  evidently, 
and  powerfully  affected.  "  Have  I  so  injured  you  ?  It  is 
true!  I  know  it,  I  perceive  it,  I  read  your  heart;  and  —  bear 
witness,  Heaven !  —  I  feel  for  the  wound  that  I,  but  with  no 
guilty  hand,  inflict  upon  you.  Yet  be  just;  ask  yourself,  have 
I  done  aught  that  you,  in  my  case,  would  have  left  undone  ? 
Have  I  been  insolent  in  triumph,  or  haughty  in  success?  If 
so,  hate  me,  nay,  spurn  me,  now." 

Walter  turned  his  head  irresolutely  away. 

"If  it  please  you  that  I  accuse  myself  in  that  I,  a  man 
seared  and  lone  at  heart,  presumed  to  come  within  the  pale  of 
human  affections;    that  I  exposed  myself   to  cross  another's 


EUGENE   ARAM.  8( 

better  and  brighter  hopes,  or  dared  to  soften  my  fate  with  the 
tender  and  endearing  ties  that  are  meet  alone  for  a  more  gen- 
ial and  youthful  nature;  if  it  please  you  that  I  accuse  and 
curse  myself  for  this,  that  I  yielded  to  it  with  pain  and  with 
self-reproach,  that  I  shall  think  hereafter  of  what  I  uncon- 
sciously cost  you,  with  remorse, —  then  be  consoled!  " 

"It  is  enough,"  said  Walter;  "let  us  part.  1  leave  you 
with  more  soreness  at  my  late  haste  than  I  will  acknowledge, 
—  let  that  content  you ;  for  myself,  I  ask  for  no  apology  or  —  " 

"But  you  shall  have  it  amply,"  interrupted  Aram,  advanc- 
ing with  a  cordial  openness  of  mien  not  usual  to  him.  "I 
was  all  to  blame;  I  should  have  remembered  you  were  an  in- 
jured man,  and  suffered  you  to  have  said  all  you  would. 
Words  at  best  are  but  a  poor  vent  for  a  wronged  and  burning 
heart.  It  shall  be  so  in  future;  speak  your  will,  attack,  up- 
braid, taunt  me,  I  will  bear  it  all.  And,  indeed,  even  to  my- 
self there  appears  some  withcraft,  some  glamory,  in  what  has 
chanced.  What!  I  favored  where  you  love  ?  Is  it  possible  ? 
It  might  teach  the  vainest  to  forswear  vanity.  You  the  young, 
the  buoyant,  the  fresh,  the  beautiful  ?  And  I,  who  have 
passed  the  glory  and  zest  of  life  between  dusty  walls,  —  I 
who —    Well,  well,  Fate  laughs  at  probabilities!" 

Aram  now  seemed  relapsing  into  one  of  his  more  abstracted 
moods;  he  ceased  to  speak  aloud,  but  his  lips  moved,  and 
his  eyes  grew  fixed  in  revery  on  the  ground.  Walter  gazed  at 
him  for  some  moments  with  mixed  and  contending  sensations. 
Once  more,  resentment  and  the  bitter  wrath  of  jealousy  had 
faded  back  into  the  remoter  depths  of  his  mind,  and  a  certain 
interest  for  his  singular  rival,  despite  of  himself,  crept  into 
his  breast.  But  this  mysterious  and  fitful  nature,  was  it  one 
in  which  the  devoted  Madeline  would  certainly  find  happiness 
and  repose, — would  she  never  regret  her  choice  ?  This  ques- 
tion obtruded  itself  upon  him,  and  while  he  sought  to  answer 
it,  Aram,  regaining  his  composure,  turned  abruptly  and  offered 
him  his  hand.  Walter  did  not  accept  it;  he  bowed  with  a 
cold  aspect.  "I  cannot  give  my  hand  without  my  heart,"  said 
he;  "we  were  foes  just  now:  we  are  not  friends  yet.  I  am 
unreasonable  in  this,  I  know,  but  —  " 


88  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"  Be  it  so, "  interrupted  Aram ;  "  I  understand  you.  I  press 
my  good-will  on  you  no  more.  When  this  pang  is  forgotten, 
when  this  wound  is  healed,  and  when  you  will  have  learned 
more  of  him  who  is  now  your  rival,  we  may  meet  again,  with 
other  feelings  on  your  side." 

Thus  they  parted ;  and  the  solitary  lamp,  which  for  weeks 
past  had  been  quenched  at  the  wholesome  hour  in  the  stu- 
dent's home,  streamed  from  the  casement  throughout  the 
whole  of  that  night :  was  it  a  witness  of  the  calm  and  learned 
vigil,  or  of  the  unresting  heart  ? 


CHAPTER   XI. 

the  family  supper. the  two  sisters  in  their  chamber. 

a    misunderstanding    followed    by   a    confession. 

Walter's  approaching  departure,  and  the  corporal's 

BEHAVIOR     THEREON.  THE    CORPORAl's     FAVORITE     INTRO- 
DUCED   TO    THE    READER.  THE    CORPORAL    PROVES    HIMSELF 

A    SUBTLE    DIPLOMATIST. 

So  we  grew  together 
Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted, 
But  yet  an  union  in  partition. 

A  Midsummer  NighVs  Dream, 

The  corporal  had  not  taken  his  measures  so  badly  in  this  stroke  of 
artilleryship.  —  Tristram  Shandy. 

It  was  late  that  evening  when  Walter  returned  home ;  the 
little  family  were  assembled  at  the  last  and  lightest  meal  of 
the  day.  Ellinor  silently  made  room  for  her  cousin  beside 
herself,  and  that  little  kindness  touched  Walter.  "Why  did 
I  not  love  her  ?  "  thought  he ;  and  he  spoke  to  her  in  a  tone 
so  affectionate  that  it  made  her  heart  thrill  with  delight. 
Lester  was,  on  the  whole,  the  most  pensive  of  the  group;  but 
the  old  and  young  man  exchanged  looks  of  restored  confidence, 


EUGENE   ARAM.  89 

which  on  the  part  of  the  former  were  softened  by  a  pitying 
tenderness. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed,  and  the  servants  gone,  Lester 
took  it  on  himself  to  break  to  the  sisters  the  intended  depart- 
ure of  their  cousin.  Madeline  received  the  news  with  painful 
blushes  and  a  certain  self-reproach ;  for  even  where  a  woman 
has  no  cause  to  blame  herself,  she  in  these  cases  feels  a  sort 
of  remorse  at  the  unhappiness  she  occasions.  But  Ellinor  rose 
suddenly  and  left  the  room. 

"And  now,"  said  Lester,  "London  will,  I  suppose,  be  your 
first  destination.  I  can  furnish  you  with  letters  to  some  of 
my  old  friends  there, —  merry  fellows  they  were  once;  you 
must  take  care  of  the  prodigality  of  their  wine.  There 's 
John  Courtland,  —  ah!  a  seductive  dog  to  drink  with.  Be 
sure  and  let  me  know  how  honest  John  looks,  and  what  he 
says  of  me.  I  recollect  him  as  if  it  were  yesterday :  a  roguish 
eye  with  a  moisture  in  it,  full  cheeks,  a  straight  nose,  black 
curled  hair,  and  teeth  as  even  as  dies,  —  honest  John  showed 
his  teeth  pretty  often,  too.  Ha,  ha!  how  the  dog  loved  a 
laugh!  Well,  and  Peter  Hales, —  Sir  Peter  now;  has  his 
uncle's  baronetcy, —  a  generous,  open-hearted  fellow  as  ever 
lived,  will  ask  you  very  often  to  dinner  —  nay,  offer  you  money 
if  you  want  it.  But  take  care  he  does  not  lead  you  into  ex- 
travagances: out  of  debt,  out  of  danger,  Walter.  It  would 
have  been  well  for  poor  Peter  Hales  had  he  remembered  that 
maxim;  often  and  often  have  I  been  to  see  him  in  the  Mar- 
shalsea.  But  he  was  the  heir  to  good  fortunes,  though  his 
relations  kept  him  close;    so  I  suppose  he  is  well  off   now. 

His  estates  lie  in  shire,  on  your  road  to  London;  so  if 

he  is  at  his  country-seat  you  can  beat  up  his  quarters  and 
spend  a  month  or  so  with  him:  a  most  hospitable  fellow." 

With  these  little  sketches  of  his  contemporaries  the  good 
squire  endeavored  to  while  the  time,  taking,  it  is  true,  some 
pleasure  in  the  youthful  reminiscences  they  excited,  but 
chiefly  designing  to  enliven  the  melancholy  of  his  nephew. 
When,  however,  Madeline  had  retired,  and  they  were  alone, 
he  drew  his  chair  closer  to  Walter's,  and  changed  the  conver- 
sation into  a  more  serious  and  anxious  strain.     The  guardian 


90  EUGENE   ARAM. 

and  the  ward  sat  up  late  that  night;  and  when  Walter  retired 
to  rest  it  was  with  a  heart  more  touched  by  his  uncle's  kind- 
ness than  his  own  sorrows. 

But  we  are  not  about  to  close  the  day  without  a  glance  at 
the  chamber  which  the  two  sisters  held  in  common.  The 
night  was  serene  and  starlit;  and  Madeline  sat  by  the  open 
window,  leaning  her  face  upon  her  hand  and  gazing  on  the 
lone  house  of  her  lover,  which  might  be  seen  afar  across  the 
landscape,  the  trees  sleeping  around  it,  and  one  pale  and 
steady  light  gleaming  from  its  lofty  casement  like  a  star. 

"He  has  broken  faith,"  said  Madeline;  "I  shall  chide  him 
for  this  to-morrow.  He  promised  me  the  light  should  be  ever 
quenched  before  this  hour." 

"Nay,"  said  Ellinor,  in  a  tone  somewhat  sharpened  from  its 
native  sweetness,  and  who  now  sat  up  in  the  bed,  the  curtain 
of  which  was  half -drawn  aside,  and  the  soft  light  of  the  skies 
rested  full  upon  her  rounded  neck  and  youthful  countenance, 
—  "nay,  Madeline,  do  not  loiter  there  any  longer;  the  air 
grows  sharp  and  cold,  and  the  clock  struck  one  several  min- 
utes since.     Come,  sister,  come !  " 

"I  cannot  sleep,"  replied  Madeline,  sighing,  "and  think 
that  yon  light  streams  upon  those  studies  which  steal  the 
healthful  hues  from  his  cheek  and  the  very  life  from  his 
heart." 

"  You  are  infatuated,  you  are  bewitched  by  that  man, "  said 
Ellinor,  peevishly. 

"  And  have  I  not  cause,  ample  cause  ?  "  returned  Madeline, 
with  all  a  girl's  beautiful  enthusiasm,  as  the  color  mantled 
her  cheek  and  gave  it  the  only  additional  loveliness  it  could 
receive.  "When  he  speaks,  is  it  not  like  music  ?  —  or,  rather, 
what  music  so  arrests  and  touches  the  heart  ?  Methinks  it  is 
heaven  only  to  gaze  upon  him,  to  note  the  changes  of  that 
majestic  countenance,  to  set  down  as  food  for  memory  every 
look  and  every  movement.  Bii*"  when  the  look  turns  to  me; 
when  the  voice  utters  my  name,  ah!  Ellinor,  then  it  is  not  a 
wonder  that  I  love  him  thus  much,  but  that  any  others  should 
think  they  have  known  love,  and  yet  not  loved  hhn  !  And, 
indeed,  I  feel  assured  that  what  the  world  calls  love  is  not 


EUGENE   ARAM.  91 

my  love.  Are  there  more  Eugenes  in  the  world  than  one  ? 
Who  but  Eugene  could  be  loved  as  I  love  ?  " 

"  What !  are  there  none  as  worthy  ? "  said  Ellinor,  half 
smiling. 

"  Can  you  ask  it  ?  "  answered  Madeline,  with  a  simple  won- 
der in  her  voice.  "  Whom  would  you  compare  —  compare ! 
nay,  place  within  a  hundred  grades  of  the  height  which 
Eugene  Aram  holds  in  this  little  world  ? " 

"This  is  folly,  dotage,"  said  Ellinor,  indignantly;  "surely 
there  are  others  as  brave,  as  gentle,  as  kind,  and  if  not  so 
wise,  yet  more  fitted  for  the  world." 

"  You  mock  me, "  replied  Madeline,  incredulously :  "  whom 
could  you  select  ?  " 

Ellinor  blushed  deeply, — blushed  from  her  snowy  temples 
to  her  yet  whiter  bosom  as  she  answered, — 

"  If  I  said  Walter  Lester,  could  you  deny  it  ?  " 

"Walter!"  repeated  Madeline,  —  "he  equal  to  Eugene 
Aram!  " 

"Ay,  and  more  than  equal,"  said  Ellinor,  with  spirit,  and 
a  warm  and  angry  tone.  "And,  indeed,  Madeline,"  she  con- 
tinued after  a  pause,  "  I  lose  something  of  that  respect  which, 
passing  a  sister's  love,  I  have  always  borne  towards  you  when 
I  see  the  unthinking  and  lavish  idolatry  you  manifest  to  one 
who,  but  for  a  silver  tongue  and  florid  words,  would  rather 
want  attractions  than  be  the  wonder  you  esteem  him.  Fie, 
Madeline !  I  blush  for  you  when  you  speak ;  it  is  unmaidenly 
so  to  love  any  one !  " 

Madeline  rose  from  the  window;  but  the  angry  word  died 
on  her  lips  when  she  saw  that  Ellinor,  who  had  worked  her 
mind  beyond  her  self-control,  had  thrown  herself  back  on  the 
pillow,  and  now  sobbed  aloud. 

The  natural  temper  of  the  elder  sister  had  always  been 
much  more  calm  and  even  than  that  of  the  younger,  who 
united  with  her  vivacity  something  of  the  passionate  caprice 
and  fitfulness  of  her  sex.  And  Madeline's  affection  for  her 
had  been  tinged  by  that  character  of  forbearance  and  soothing 
which  a  superior  nature  often  manifests  to  one  more  imper- 
fect,  and  which  in  this  instance  did  not  desert  her      Shf 


92  EUGENE   ARAM. 

gently  closed  the  window,  and  gliding  to  the  bed,  threw  hei 
arms  around  her  sister's  neck  and  kissed  away  her  tears  with 
a  caressing  fondness  that  if  Ellinor  resisted  for  one  moment, 
she  returned  with  equal  tenderness  the  next. 

"Indeed,  dearest,"  said  Madeline,  gently,  "I  cannot  guess 
how  I  hurt  you,  and  still  less  how  Eugene  has  offended 
you ! " 

"He  has  offended  me  in  nothing,"  replied  Ellinor,  still 
weeping,  "  if  he  has  not  stolen  away  all  your  affection  from 
me.  But  I  was  a  foolish  girl, —  forgive  me,  as  you  always 
do  J  and  at  this  time  I  need  your  kindness,  for  I  am  very, 
very  unhappy." 

"  Unhappy,  dearest  Nell,  and  why  ?  " 

Ellinor  wept  on  without  answering. 

Madeline  persisted  in  pressing  for  a  reply;  and  at  length 
her  sister  sobbed  out, — 

"  I  know  that  —  that  —  Walter  only  has  eyes  for  you,  and  a 
heart  for  you,  who  neglect,  who  despise  his  love ;  and  I  —  I  — 
But  no  matter,  he  is  going  to  leave  us,  and  of  me  —  poor  me 
—  he  will  think  no  more!  " 

Ellinor's  attachment  to  their  cousin,  Madeline  had  long 
half  suspected,  and  she  had  often  rallied  her  sister  upon  it; 
indeed,  it  might  have  been  this  suspicion  which  made  her  at 
the  first  steel  her  breast  against  Walter's  evident  preference 
to  herself.  But  Ellinor  had  never  till  now  seriously  confessed 
how  much  her  heart  was  affected ;  and  Madeline,  in  the  natu- 
ral engrossment  of  her  own  ardent  and  devoted  love,  had  not 
of  late  spared  much  observation  to  the  tokens  of  her  sister's. 
She  was  therefore  dismayed,  if  not  surprised,  as  she  now  per- 
ceived the  cause  of  the  peevishness  Ellinor  had  just  mani- 
fested, and  by  the  nature  of  the  love  she  felt  herself,  she 
judged,  and  perhaps  somewhat  overrated,  the  anguish  that 
Ellinor  endured. 

She  strove  to  comfort  her  by  all  the  arguments  which  the 
fertile  ingenuity  of  kindness  could  invent:  she  prophesied 
Walter's  speedy  return,  with  his  boyish  disappointment  for- 
gotten, and  with  eyes  no  longer  blinded  to  the  attractions  of 
one  sister  by  a  bootless  fancy  for  another.     And  though  Elli- 


EUGENE   ARAM.  93 

nor  interrupted  her  from  time  to  time  with  assertions,  now 
of  Walter's  eternal  constancy  to  his  present  idol,  now  with 
yet  more  vehement  declarations  of  the  certainty  of  his  finding 
new  objects  for  his  affections  in  new  scenes,  she  yet  admitted, 
by  little  and  little,  the  persuasive  powers  of  Madeline  to  creep 
into  her  heart  and  brighten  away  its  griefs  with  hope,  till  at 
last,  with  the  tears  yet  wet  on  her  cheek,  she  fell  asleep  in 
her  sister's  arms. 

And  Madeline,  though  she  would  not  stir  from  her  post  lest 
the  movement  should  awaken  her  sister,  was  yet  prevented 
from  closing  her  eyes  in  a  similar  repose.  Ever  and  anon  she 
breathlessly  and  gently  raised  herself  to  steal  a  glimpse  of 
that  solitary  light  afar;  and  ever  as  she  looked,  the  ray  greeted 
her  eyes  with  an  unswerving  and  melancholy  stillness,  till  the 
dawn  crept  grayly  over  the  heavens,  and  that  speck  of  light, 
holier  to  her  than  the  stars,  faded  also  with  them  beneath  the 
broader  lustre  of  the  day. 

The  next  week  was  passed  in  preparations  for  Walter's  de- 
parture. At  that  time,  and  in  that  distant  part  of  the  coun- 
try, it  was  greatly  the  fashion  among  the  younger  travellers 
to  perform  their  excursions  on  horseback,  and  it  was  this 
method  of  conveyance  that  Walter  preferred.  The  best  steed 
in  the  squire's  stable  was  therefore  appropriated  to  his  ser- 
vice, and  a  strong  black  horse,  with  a  Roman  nose  and  a  long 
tail,  was  consi^^ned  to  the  mastery  of  Corporal  Bunting.  The 
squire  was  delighted  that  his  nephew  had  secured  such  an  at- 
tendant. For  the  soldier,  though  odd  and  selfish,  was  a  man 
of  sense  and  experience,  and  Lester  thought  such  qualities 
might  not  be  without  their  use  to  a  young  master  new  to  the 
common  frauds  and  daily  usages  of  the  world  he  was  about  to 
enter. 

As  for  Bunting  himself,  he  covered  his  secret  exultation  at 
the  prospect  of  change  and  board-wages  with  the  cool  sem- 
blance of  a  man  sacrificing  his  wishes  to  his  affections.  He 
made  it  his  peculiar  study  to  impress  upon  the  squire's  mind 
the  extent  of  the  sacrifice  he  was  about  to  make.  The  bit  cot 
had  been  just  whitewashed,  the  pet  cat  just  lain  in;  then 
too,  who  would  dig,  and  gather  seeds  in  the  garden,  defend 


94  EUGENE  ARAM. 

the  plants  (plants!  the  corporal  could  scarce  count  a  dozen, 
and  nine  out  of  them  were  cabbages!)  from  the  impending 
frosts  ?  It  was  exactly,  too,  the  time  of  year  when  the  rheu^ 
matism  paid  flying  visits  to  the  bones  and  loins  of  the  worthy 
corporal;  and  to  think  of  his  "gallivanting  about  the  coun- 
try "  when  he  ought  to  be  guarding  against  the  sly  foe,  the 
lumbago,  in  the  fortress  of  his  chimney-corner ! 

To  all  these  murmurs  and  insinuations  the  good  Lester  seri- 
ously inclined,  not  with  the  less  sympathy  in  that  they  invari- 
ably ended  in  the  corporal's  slapping  his  manly  thigh  and 
swearing  that  he  loved  Master  Walter  like  gunpowder,  and 
that  were  it  twenty  times  as  much,  he  would  cheerfully  do  it 
for  the  sake  of  his  handsome  young  honor.  Ever  at  this  per- 
oration the  eyes  of  the  squire  began  to  twinkle,  and  new 
thanks  were  given  to  the  veteran  for  his  disinterested  alfec 
tion,  and  new  promises  pledged  him  in  adequate  return. 

The  pious  Dealtry  felt  a  little  jealousy  at  the  trust  imparted 
to  his  friend.  He  halted  on  his  return  from  his  farm,  by  the 
spruce  stile  which  led  to  the  demesne  of  the  corporal,  and 
eyed  the  warrior  somewhat  sourly  as  he  now,  in  the  cool  of 
the  evening,  sat  without  his  door,  arranging  his  fishing-tackle 
and  flies  in  various  little  papers,  which  he  carefully  labelled 
by  the  help  of  a  stunted  pen  that  had  seen  at  least  as  much 
service  as  himself. 

"Well,  neighbor  Bunting,"  said  the  little  landlord,  leaning 
over  the  stile,  but  not  passing  its  boundary,  "and  when  do 
you  go  ?  You  will  have  wet  weather  of  it  [looking  up  to  the 
skies] ;  you  must  take  care  of  the  rumatiz.  At  your  age  it 's 
no  trifle,  eh  —  hem." 

"  My  age !  Should  like  to  know  what  mean  by  that !  My 
age,  indeed!  augh!  bother!"  grunted  Bunting,  looking  up 
from  his  occupation.  Peter  chuckled  inly  at  the  corporal's 
displeasure,  and  continued,  as  in  an  apologetic  tone, — 

"Oh,  I  ax  your  pardon,  neighbor.  I  don't  mean  to  say  you 
are  too  old  to  travel.  Why  there  was  Hal  Whitol,  eighty-two 
come  next  Michaelmas,  took  a  trip  to  Lunnun  last  year, — 

"  '  For  young  and  old,  the  stout,  the  poorly, 
The  eye  of  God  be  on  them  surely. ' " 


EUGENE  ARAM.  95 

"Bother !  "  said  the  corporal,  turning  round  on  his  seat. 

*'  And  what  do  you  intend  doing  with  the  brindled  cat  ?  Put 
'un  up  in  the  saddle-bags  ?  You  won't  surely  have  the  heart 
to  leave  'un." 

"As  to  that,"  quoth  the  corporal,  sighing,  "the  poor  dumb 
animal  makes  me  sad  to  think  on  't."  And  putting  down  his 
fish-hooks,  he  stroked  the  sides  of  an  enormous  cat,  who  now, 
with  tail  on  end  and  back  bowed  up,  and  uttering  her  lenes 
susurrus,  —  Anglice,  purr, —  rubbed  herself  to  and  fro  athwart 
the  corporal's  legs, 

"  What  staring  there  for  ?  Won't  ye  step  in,  man  ?  Can 
climb  the  stile,  I  suppose  ?  augh !  " 

"No,  thank  ye,  neighbor.  I  do  very  well  here, —  that  is  if 
you  can  hear  me ;  your  deafness  is  not  so  troublesome  as  it 
was  last  win  —  " 

"  Bother !  "  interrupted  the  corporal,  in  a  voice  that  made 
the  little  landlord  start  bolt  upright  from  the  easy  confidence 
of  his  position.  Nothing  on  earth  so  offended  the  perpendic- 
ular Jacob  Bunting  as  any  insinuation  of  increasing  years  or 
growing  infirmities ;  but  at  this  moment,  as  he  meditated  put- 
ting Dealtry  to  some  use,  he  prudently  conquered  the  gather- 
ing anger,  and  added,  like  the  man  of  the  world  he  justly 
plumed  himself  on  being,  in  a  voice  gentle  as  a  dying  howl,  — 

"What  'fraid  on  ?  Come  in,  there  's  good  fellow;  want  to 
speak  to  ye.  Come,  do,  a-u-g-h ! "  the  last  sound  being  pro- 
longed into  one  of  unutterable  coaxingness,  and  accompanied 
with  a  beck  of  the  hand  and  a  wheedling  wink. 

These  allurements  the  good  Peter  could  not  resist ;  he  clam- 
bered the  stile,  and  seated  himself  on  the  bench  beside  the 
corporal. 

"There  now,  fine  fellow,  fit  for  the  Forty-second,"  said 
Bunting,  clapping  him  on  the  back.  "  Well,  and  —  and  —  a 
beautiful  cat,  is  n't  her  ?  " 

"  Ah ! "  said  Peter,  very  shortly ;  for  though  a  remarkably 
mild  man,  Peter  did  not  love  cats.  Moreover,  we  must  now 
inform  the  reader  that  the  cat  of  Jacob  Bunting  was  one  more 
feared  than  respected  throughout  the  village.  The  corporal 
was  a  cunning  instructor  of  all  animals :  he  could  teach  gold' 


96  EUGENE  ARAM. 

finches  tlie  use  of  the  musket;  dogs  the  art  of  the  broadsword; 
horses  to  dance  hornpipes  and  pick  pockets;  and  he  had  re- 
lieved the  eiuiui  of  his  solitary  moments  by  imparting  sundry 
accomplishments  to  the  ductile  genius  of  his  cat.  Under  his 
tuition  puss  had  learned  to  fetch  and  carry;  to  turn  over  head 
and  tail  like  a  tumbler;  to  run  up  your  shoulder  when  you  least 
expected  it ;  to  fly  as  if  she  were  mad  at  any  one  upon  whom 
the  corporal  thought  fit  to  set  her;  and,  above  all,  to  rob  lard- 
ers, shelves,  and  tables,  and  bring  the  produce  to  the  corporal, 
who  never  failed  to  consider  such  stray  waifs  lawful  manorial 
acquisitions.  These  little  feline  cultivations  of  talent,  how- 
ever delightful  to  the  corporal,  and  creditable  to  his  powers 
of  teaching  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot,  had  nevertheless, 
since  the  truth  must  be  told,  rendered  the  corporal's  cat  a 
proverb  and  by-word  throughout  the  neighborhood.  Never 
was  cat  in  such  bad  odor;  and  the  dislike  in  which  it  was 
held  was  wonderfully  increased  by  terror:  for  the  creature 
was  singularly  large  and  robust,  and  withal  of  so  courageous 
a  temper  that  if  you  attempted  to  resist  its  invasion  of  your 
property  it  forthwith  set  up  its  back,  put  down  its  ears, 
opened  its  mouth,  and  bade  you  fully  comprehend  that  what 
it  feloniously  seized  it  could  gallantly  defend.  More  than 
one  gossip  in  the  village  had  this  notable  cat  hurried  into  pre- 
mature parturition  as,  on  descending  at  daybreak  into  her 
kitchen,  the  dame  would  descry  the  animal  perched  on  the 
dresser,  having  entered  Heaven  knows  how,  and  glaring  upon 
her  with  its  great  green  eyes  and  a  malignant  brownie  expres- 
sion of  countenance. 

Various  deputations  had  indeed  from  time  to  time  arrived 
at  the  corporal's  cottage  requesting  the  death,  expulsion,  or 
perpetual  imprisonment  of  the  favorite.  But  the  stout  corpo- 
ral received  them  grimly  and  dismissed  them  gruffly;  and  the 
cat  went  on  waxing  in  size  and  wickedness,  and  baffling,  as 
if  inspired  by  the  devil,  the  various  gins  and  traps  set  for  its 
destruction.  But  never,  perhaps,  was  there  a  greater  disturb- 
ance and  perturbation  in  the  little  hamlet  than  when,  some 
three  weeks  since,  the  corporal's  cat  was  known  to  be  brought 
to  bed  and  safely  delivered  of  a  numerous  offspring.      The 


EUGENE  ARAM.  97 

village  saw  itself  overrun  with  a  race  and  a  perpetuity  of 
corporal's  cats.  Perhaps,  too,  their  teacher  growing  more 
expert  by  practice,  the  descendants  might  attain  to  even 
greater  accomplishment  than  their  nefarious  progenitor.  No 
longer  did  the  faint  hope  of  being  delivered  from  their  tor- 
mentor by  an  untimely  or  even  natural  death  occur  to  the 
harassed  Grassdalians.  Death  was  an  incident  natural  to  one 
cat,  however  vivacious;  but  here  was  a  dynasty  of  cats! 
Pri7icipes  mortales,  respuhlica  ceterna  ! 

Now,  the  corporal  loved  this  creature  better,  yes,  better 
than  anything  in  the  world  except  travelling  and  board-wages ; 
and  he  was  sorely  perplexed  in  his  mind  how  he  should  be 
able  to  dispose  of  her  safely  in  his  absence.  He  was  aware 
of  the  general  enmity  she  had  inspired,  and  trembled  to  anti- 
cipate its  probable  result  when  he  was  no  longer  by  to  afford 
her  shelter  and  protection.  The  squire  had,  indeed,  offered 
her  an  asylum  at  the  manor-house;  but  the  sqviire's  cook  was 
the  cat's  most  embittered  enemy,  and  what  man  can  answer 
for  the  peaceable  behavior  of  his  cook?  The  corporal,  there- 
fore, with  a  reluctant  sigh,  renounced  the  friendly  offer;  and 
after  lying  awake  three  nights,  and  turning  over  in  his  mind 
the  characters,  consciences,  and  capabilities  of  all  his  neigh- 
bors, he  came  at  last  to  the  conviction  that  there  was  no  one 
with  whom  he  could  so  safely  intrust  his  cat  as  Peter  Dealtry. 
It  is  true,  as  we  said  before,  that  Peter  was  no  lover  of  cats ; 
and  the  task  of  persuading  him  to  afford  board  and  lodging  to 
a  cat  of  all  cats  the  most  odious  and  malignant,  was  therefore 
no  easy  matter.  But  to  a  man  of  the  world  what  intrigue  is 
impossible  ? 

The  finest  diplomatist  in  Europe  might  have  taken  a  lesson 
from  the  corporal,  as  he  now  proceeded  earnestly  towards  the 
accomplishment  of  his  project. 

He  took  the  cat, —  which,  by  the  by,  we  forgot  to  say  that 
he  had  thought  fit  to  christen  after  himself,  and  to  honor  with 
a  name,  somewhat  lengthy  for  a  cat  (but,  indeed,  this  was  no 
ordinary  cat!),  namely,  Jacobina,  —  he  took  Jacobina  then,  we 
say,  upon  his  lap,  and  stroking  her  brindled  sides  with  great 
tenderness,  he  bade  Dealtry  remark  how  singularly  quiet  the 

7 


98  EUGENE  ARAM. 

animal  was  in  its  manners.  Nay,  he  was  not  contented  until 
Peter  himself  had  patted  her  with  a  timorous  hand,  and  had 
reluctantly  submitted  the  said  hand  to  the  honor  of  being- 
licked  by  the  cat  in  return.  Jacobina,  who,  to  do  her  justice, 
was  always  meek  enough  in  the  presence  and  at  the  will  of 
her  master,  was,  fortunately,  this  day,  on  her  very  best 
behavior. 

"Them  dumb  animals  be  mighty  grateful,"  quoth  the 
corporal. 

"Ah!"  rejoined  Peter,  wiping  his  hand  with  his  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

"  But,  Lord,  what  scandal  there  be  in  the  world !  " 

" '  Though  slander's  breath  may  raise  a  storm, 
It  quickly  does  decay  ! ' " 

muttered  Peter. 

"Very  well,  very  true, —  sensible  verses  those,"  said  the 
corporal,  approvingly;  "and  yet  mischief's  often  done  before 
the  amends  come.  Body  o'  me,  it  makes  a  man  sick  of  his 
kind,  ashamed  to  belong  to  the  race  of  men,  to  see  the  envy 
that  abounds  in  this  here  sublunary  wale  of  tears !  "  said  the 
corporal,  lifting  up  his  eyes. 

Peter  stared  at  him  with  open  mouth.  The  hypocritical 
rascal  continued,  after  a  pause, — 

"Now,  there's  Jacobina:  'cause  she's  a  good  cat,  a  faith- 
ful servant,  the  whole  village  is  against  her.  Such  lies  as 
they  tell  on  her,  such  wappers,  you  'd  think  she  was  the 
devil  in  garnet!  I  grant,  I  grant,"  added  the  corporal,  in  a 
tone  of  apologetic  candor,  "that  she  's  wild,  saucy,  knows  her 
friends  from  her  foes,  steals  Goody  Solomon's  butter;  but 
what  then?  Goody  Solomon's  d — d  b — h!  Goody  Solomon 
sold  beer  in  opposition  to  you,  set  up  a  public:  you  do  not 
like  Goody  Solomon,  Peter  Dealtry?" 

"  If  that  were  all  Jacobina  had  done !  "  said  the  landlord, 
grinning. 

"  All !  What  else  did  she  do  ?  Why  she  eat  up  John  Tom- 
kins's  canary  bird;  and  did  not  John  Tomkins,  saucy  rascal! 
say  you  could  not  sing  better  nor  a  raven  ?  " 


EUGENE  ARAM.  99 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  the  poor  creature  for  that, " 
said  Peter,  stroking  the  cat  of  his  own  accord.  "Cats  will 
eat  birds, —  'tis  the  'spensation  of  Providence.  But  what, 
corporal !  "  —  and  Peter,  hastily  withdrawing  his  hand,  hurried 
it  into  his  breeches'  pocket  —  "but  what!  did  not  she  scratch 
Joe  Webster's  little  boy's  hand  into  ribbons  because  the  boy 
tried  to  prevent  her  running  off  with  a  ball  of  string  ?  " 

"And  well,"  grunted  the  corporal,  "that  was  not  Jacobina's 
doing,  that  was  my  doing.  I  wanted  the  string, —  offered  to 
pay  a  penny  for  it;  think  of  that!  " 

"It  was  priced  twopence  ha'penny,"  said  Peter. 

"  Augh,  baugh !  you  would  not  pay  Joe  Webster  all  he  asks ! 
What 's  the  use  of  being  a  man  of  the  world  unless  one  makes 
one's  tradesmen  bate  a  bit  ?  Bargaining  is  not  cheating,  I 
hope ! " 

"  Heaven  forbid !  "  said  Peter. 

"  But  as  to  the  bit  string,  Jacobina  took  it  solely  for  your 
sake.  Ah,  she  did  not  think  you  were  to  turn  against 
her!" 

So  saying,  the  corporal  got  up,  walked  into  his  house,  and 
presently  came  back  with  a  little  net  in  his  hand. 

"There,  Peter,  net  for  you,  to  hold  lemons.  Thank  Jaco- 
bina for  that;  she  got  the  string.  Says  I  to  her  one  day,  as 
I  was  sitting,  as  I  might  be  now,  without  the  door:  'Jacobina, 
Peter  Dealtry  's  a  good  fellow,  and  he  keeps  his  lemons  in  a 
bag:  bad  habit, —  get  mouldy;  we'll  make  him  a  net;'  and 
Jacobina  purred  (stroke  the  poor  creature,  Peter !)  —  so  Jaco- 
bina and  I  took  a  walk,  and  when  we  came  to  Joe  Webster's, 
I  pointed  out  the  ball  of  twine  to  her.  So,  for  your  sake, 
Peter,  she  got  into  this  here  scrape,  augh." 

"  Ah !  "  quoth  Peter,  laughing,  "  poor  puss !  poor  pussy ! 
poor  little  pussy !  " 

"And  now,  Peter,"  said  the  corporal,  taking  his  friend's 
hand,  "I  am  going  to  prove  friendship  to  you, —  going  to  do 
you  great  favor." 

"Aha!"  said  Peter.  "My  good  friend,  I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you.  I  know  your  kind  heart,  but  I  really  don't 
want  any  —  " 


100  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"Bother!  "  cried  the  corporal;  "I  'm  not  the  man  as  makes 
much  of  doing  a  friend  a  kindness.  Hold  jaw!  Tell  you 
what,  tell  you  what :  am  going  away  on  Wednesday  at  day- 
break,  and  in  my  absence  you  shall  — " 

"  What,  my  good  corporal  ?  " 

"  Take  charge  of  Jacobina !  " 

"  Take  charge  of  the  devil !  "  cried  Peter. 

"Augh!  baugh!     What  words  are  those  ?    Listen  to  me." 

"I  won't!" 

"  You  shall ! " 

"I  '11  be  d  —  d  if  I  do!  "  quoth  Peter,  sturdily.  It  was  the 
first  time  he  had  been  known  to  swear  since  he  was  parish 
clerk. 

*'  Very  well,  very  well !  "  said  the  corporal,  chucking  up  his 
chin.  "Jacobina  can  take  care  of  herself!  Jacobina  knows 
her  friends  and  her  foes  as  well  as  her  master!  Jacobina 
never  injvires  her  friends,  never  forgives  foes.  Look  to  your- 
self !  look  to  yourself !  Insult  my  cat,  insult  me !  Swear  at 
Jacobina,  indeed ! " 

"  If  she  steals  my  cream !  "  cried  Peter. 

"Did  she  ever  steal  your  cream?" 

"No;  but  if— " 

"  Did  she  ever  steal  your  cream  ?  " 

"I  can't  say  she  ever  did." 

"  Or  anything  else  of  yours  ?  " 

"Not  that  I  know  of;  but  —  " 

"Never  too  late  to  mend." 

"If  —  " 

"  Will  you  listen  to  me,  or  not  ?  " 

"Well." 

"You '11  listen?" 

"Yes." 

"Know,  then,  that  I  wanted  to  do  you  kindness." 

"Humph!" 

"Hold  jaw!  I  taught  Jacobina  all  she  knows." 

"  More  's  the  pity !  " 

"  Hold  jaw !  I  taught  her  to  respect  her  friends,  never  to 
commit  herself  in-doors,  never  to  steal  at  home,  never  to  fly 


EUGENE  ARAM.  101 

at  home,  never  to  scratch  at  home,  to  kill  mice  and  rats,  to 
bring  all  she  catches  to  her  master,  to  do  what  he  tells  her, 
and  to  defend  his  house  as  well  as  a  mastiff;  and  this  inval- 
uable creature  I  was  going  to  lend  you.  Won't  now,  d  —  d  if 
I  do!" 

"Humph!" 

^'Hold  jaw!  When  I  am  gone,  Jacobina  will  have  no  one 
to  feed  her.  She'll  feed  herself, —  will  go  to  every  larder, 
every  house  in  the  place :  yours  best  larder,  best  house ;  will 
come  to  you  oftenest.  If  your  wife  attempts  to  drive  her 
away,  scratch  her  eyes  out;  if  you  disturb  her,  serve  you 
worse  than  Joe  Webster's  little  boy.  Wanted  to  prevent 
this, — won't  now,  d  —  d  if  I  do!  " 

"But,  corporal,  how  would  it  mend  the  matter  to  take  the 
devil  in-doors  ?  " 

"  Devil !  Don't  call  names.  Did  I  not  tell  you,  only  one 
Jacobina  does  not  hurt  is  her  master  ?  Make  you  her  master : 
now  d'  ye  see  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  hard, "  said  Peter,  grumblingly,  "  that  the  only 
way  I  can  defend  myself  from  this  villanous  creature  is  to 
take  her  into  my  house." 

"Villanous!  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  her  affection.  She 
returns  good  for  evil, —  she  always  loved  you:  see  how  she 
rubs  herself  against  you;  and  that 's  the  reason  why  I  selected 
you  from  the  whole  village  to  take  care  of  her.  But  you  at 
once  injure  yourself  and  refuse  to  do  your  friend  a  service. 
Howsomever,  you  know  I  shall  be  with  young  squire,  and 
he  '11  be  master  here  one  of  these  days,  and  I  shall  have  an  in- 
fluence over  him, — you  '11  see,  you  '11  see.  Look  that  there  's 
not  another  Spotted  Dog  set  up,  augh !  bother !  " 

"But  what  would  my  wife  say  if  I  took  the  cat  ?  She  can't 
abide  its  name." 

"  Let  me  alone  to  talk  to  your  wife.  What  would  she  say 
if  I  bring  her  from  Lunnun  town  a  fine  silk  gown,  or  a  neat 
shawl  with  a  blue  border, — blue  becomes  her, —  or  a  tay -chest 
that  will  do  for  you  both,  and  would  set  off  the  little  back 
parlor  ?  Mahogany  tay-chest,  inlaid  at  top,  initials  in  silver, 
J.  B.  to  D.  and  P.  D. ;  two  boxes  for  tay,  and  a  bowl  for  sugar 


102  EUGENE   ARAM. 

in  the  middle.     Ah!  ah!     Love  me,  love  my  cat!     When  was 
Jacob  Bvmting  ungrateful  ?  augh !  " 

"Well,  well!  will  you  talk  to  Dorothy  about  it  ?" 
"  I  shall  have  your  consent,  then  ?  Thanks,  my  dear,  dear 
Peter!  'Pon  my  soul  you're  a  fine  fellow!  you  see,  you're 
great  man  of  the  parish.  If  you  protect  her,  none  dare  in- 
jure; if  you  scout  her,  all  set  upon  her.  For,  as  you  said,  or 
rather  sung,  t'  other  Sunday,  —  capital  voice  you  were  in, 
too,  — 

" '  The  mighty  tyrants  without  cause 
Conspire  her  blood  to  shed  ! ' " 

"I  did  not  think  you  had  so  good  a  memory,  corporal,"  said 
Peter,  smiling.  The  cat  was  now  curling  itself  up  in  his  lap. 
"  After  all,  Jacobina  —  what  a  deuce  of  a  name !  —  seems  gen- 
tle enough." 

"  Gentle  as  a  lamb,  soft  as  butter,  kind  as  cream,  and  such 
a  mouser ! " 

"But  I  don't  think  Dorothy  —  " 

"I'll  settle  Dorothy." 

"  Well,  when  will  you  look  up  ?  " 

"Come  and  take  a  diSh  of  tay  with  you  in  half  an  hour, — 
you  want  a  new  tay-chest;  something  new  and  genteel." 

"I  think  we  do,"  said  Peter,  rising,  and  gently  depositing 
the  cat  on  the  ground. 

"Aha!  we  '11  see  to  it;  we  '11  see!  Good-by  for  the  present; 
in  half  an  hour  be  with  you !  " 

The  corporal,  left  alone  with  Jacobina,  eyed  her  intently, 
and  burst  into  the  following  pathetic  address :  — 

"  Well,  Jacobina,  you  little  know  the  pains  I  takes  to  serve 
you,  the  lies  I  tells  for  you, —  endangered  my  precious  soul 
for  your  sake,  you  jade !  Ah !  may  well  rub  your  sides  against 
me.  Jacobina!  Jacobina!  you  be  the  only  thing  in  the  world 
that  cares  a  button  for  me.  I  have  neither  kith  nor  kin. 
You  are  daughter,  friend,  wife  to  me;  if  anything  happened 
to  you,  I  should  not  have  the  heart  to  love  anything  else. 
And  body  o'  me,  but  you  be  as  kind  as  any  mistress,  and  much 
more  tractable  than  any  wife ;  but  the  world  gives  you  a  bad 
name,  Jacobina.     Why?     Is  it  that  you  do  worse   than  the 


EUGENE  ARAM.  103 

world  do  ?  You  lias  no  morality  in  you,  Jacobina;  well,  but 
has  the  world?  No!  But  it  has  humbug, —  you  have  no 
humbug,  Jacobina.  On  the  faith  of  a  man,  Jacobina,  you  be 
better  than  the  world,  baugh!  You  takes  care  of  your  own 
interest,  but  you  takes  care  of  your  master's  too !  You  loves 
me  well  as  yourself.  Few  cats  can  say  the  same,  Jacobina, 
and  no  gossip  that  flings  a  stone  at  your  pretty  brindled  skin 
can  say  half  as  much.  We  must  not  forget  your  kittens, 
Jacobina;  you  have  four  left,  —  they  must  be  provided  for. 
Why  not  a  cat's  children  as  well  as  a  courtier's  ?  I  have  got 
you  a  comfortable  home,  Jacobina;  take  care  of  yourself,  and 
don't  fall  in  love  with  every  tom-cat  in  the  place.  Be  sober, 
and  lead  a  single  life  till  my  return.  Come,  Jacobina,  we 
will  lock  up  the  house  and  go  and  see  the  quarters  I  have  pro- 
vided for  you.     Heigho !  " 

As  he  finished  his  harangue  the  corporal  locked  the  door  of 
his  cottage,  and  Jacobina  trotting  by  his  side,  he  stalked  with 
his  usual  stateliness  to  The  Spotted  Dog. 

Dame  Dorothy  Dealtry  received  him  with  a  clouded  brow; 
but  the  man  of  the  world  knew  whom  he  had  to  deal  with. 
On  Wednesday  morning  Jacobina  was  inducted  into  the  com-, 
forts  of  the  hearth  of  mine  host,  and  her  four  little  kittens 
mewed  hard  by,  from  the  sinecure  of  a  basket  lined  with 
flannel. 

Reader,  here  is  wisdom  in  this  chapter :  it  is  not  every  man 
who  knows  how  to  dispose  of  his  cat. 


104  EUGENE   ARAM. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

A    STRANGE    HABIT. WALTEr's     INTERVIEW    WITH    MADELINE. 

HER    GENEROUS    AND    CONFIDING    DISPOSITION. WALTEr's 

ANGER. THE  PARTING  MEAL. CONVERSATION  BETWEEN  THB 

UNCLE    AND   NEPHEW. WALTER  ALONE. SLEEP    THE   BLESS- 
ING  OF    THE    YOUNG. 

Fall.  ■  Out,  out !  unworthy  to  speak  where  he  breatheth,  .  .  . 

Punt.     Well,  now  my  whole  venture  is  forth,  I  will  resolve  to  depart. 

Ben  Jonson:  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humor. 

It  was  now  the  eve  before  Walter's  departure,  and  on  re- 
turning home  from  a  farewell  walk  among  his  favorite  haunts, 
he  found  Aram,  whose  visit  had  been  made  during  Walter's  ab- 
sence, now  standing  on  the  threshold  of  the  door  and  taking 
leave  of  Madeline  and  her  father.  Aram  and  Walter  had  only 
met  twice  before  since  the  interview  we  recorded,  and  each 
time  Walter  had  taken  care  that  the  meeting  should  be  but 
of  short  duration.  In  these  brief  encounters  Aram's  manner 
had  been  even  more  gentle  than  heretofore;  that  of  Walter 
more  cold  and  distant.  And  now,  as  they  thus  unexpectedly 
met  at  the  door,  Aram,  looking  at  him  earnestly,  said, — 

"Farewell,  sir!  You  are  to  leave  us  for  some  time,  I  hear. 
Heaven  speed  you !  "  Then  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  "  Will 
you  take  my  hand  now,  in  parting  ?  " 

As  he  said,  he  put  forth  his  hand, —  it  was  the  left. 

"Let  it  be  the  right  hand,"  observed  the  elder  Lester,  smil- 
ing; "it  is  a  luckier  omen." 

"I  think  not,"  said  Aram,  dryly.  And  Walter  noted  that 
he  had  never  remembered  him  to  give  his  right  hand  to  any 
one,  even  to  Madeline:  the  peculiarity  of  this  habit  might, 
however,  arise  from  an  awkward  early  habit;  it  was  certainly 
scarce  worth  observing,  and  Walter  had  already  coldly  touched 
the  hand  extended  to  him  when  Lester  said  carelessly, — 


EUGENE   ARAM.  105 

"Is  there  any  superstition  that  makes  you  think,  as  some  of 
the  ancients  did,  the  left  hand  hickier  than  the  right  ?  " 

" Yes, "  replied  Aram ;  " a  superstition.     Adieu!" 

The  student  departed.  Madeline  slowly  walked  up  one  of 
the  garden  alleys;  and  thither  Walter,  after  whispering  to 
his  uncle,  followed  her. 

There  is  something  in  those  bitter  feelings  which  are  the 
offspring  of  disappointed  love,  something  in  the  intolerable 
anguish  of  well-founded  jealousy,  that,  when  the  first  shock 
is  over,  often  hardens,  and  perhaps  elevates  the  character. 
The  sterner  powers  that  we  arouse  within  us  to  combat  a  pas- 
sion that  can  no  longer  be  worthily  indulged  are  never  after- 
wards wholly  allayed.  Like  the  allies  which  a  nation  sum- 
mons to  its  bosom  to  defend  it  from  its  foes,  they  expel 
the  enemy  only  to  find  a  settlement  for  themselves.  The 
mind  of  every  man  who  conquers  an  unfortunate  attachment 
becomes  stronger  than  before ;  it  may  be  for  evil,  it  may  be 
for  good,  but  the  capacities  for  either  are  more  vigorous  and 
collected. 

The  last  few  weeks  had  done  more  for  Walter's  character 
than  years  of  ordinary,  even  of  happy,  emotion  might  have 
effected.  He  had  passed  from  youth  to  manhood;  and  with 
the  sadness  had  acquired  also  something  of  the  dignity  of  ex- 
perience. Not  that  we  would  say  that  he  had  subdued  his 
love,  but  he  had  made  the  first  step  towards  it:  he  had  re- 
solved that  at  all  hazards  it  should  be  subdued. 

As  he  now  joined  Madeline,  and  she  perceived  him  by  her 
side,  her  embarrassment  was  more  evident  than  his.  She 
feared  some  avowal,  and,  from  his  temper,  perhaps  some 
violence  on  his  part.  However,  she  was  the  first  to  speak: 
women  in  such  cases  always  are. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  evening,"  said  she;  "and  the  sun  set  in 
promise  of  a  fine  day  for  your  journey  to-morrow. " 

Walter  walked  on  silently ;  his  heart  was  full.  "  Madeline, " 
he  said  at  length,  "  dear  IMadeline,  give  me  your  hand.  Nay, 
do  not  fear  me;  I  know  what  you  think,  and  you  are  right: 
I  loved  —  I  still  love  you !  But  I  know  well  that  I  can  have  no 
hope  in  making  this  confession;  and  when  I  ask  you  for  your 


106  EUGENE  ARAM. 

hand,  Madeline,  it  is  only  to  convince  you  that  I  have  no  suit 
to  press:  had  I,  I  would  not  dare  to  touch  tiiat  hand." 

Madeline,  wondering  and  embarrassed,  gave  him  her  hand ; 
he  held  it  for  a  moment  with  a  trembling  clasp,  pressed  it  to 
his  lips,  and  then  resigned  it. 

"Yes,  Madeline,  my  cousin,  my  sweet  cousin,  I  have  loved 
you  deeply,  but  silently,  long  before  my  heart  could  unravel 
the  mystery  of  the  feelings  with  which  it  glowed.  But  this, 
all  this,  it  were  now  idle  to  repeat.  I  know  that  the  heart 
whose  possession  would  have  made  my  whole  life  a  dream,  a 
transport,  is  given  to  another.  I  have  not  sought  you  now, 
Madeline,  to  repine  at  this,  or  to  vex  you  by  the  tale  of  any 
suffering  I  may  endure ;  I  am  come  only  to  give  you  the  part- 
ing wishes,  the  parting  blessing,  of  one  who,  wherever  he  goes 
or  whatever  befall  him,  will  always  think  of  you  as  the  bright- 
est and  loveliest  of  human  beings.  May  you  be  happy, — yes, 
even  with  another! " 

"Oh,  Walter!"  said  Madeline,  affected  to  tears,  "if  I  ever 
encouraged,  if  I  ever  led  you  to  hope  for  more  than  the  warm, 
the  sisterly  affection  I  bear  you,  how  bitterly  I  should  reproach 
myself! " 

"  You  never  did,  dear  Madeline ;  I  asked  for  no  inducement 
to  love  you, —  I  never  dreamed  of  seeking  a  motive  or  inquir- 
ing if  I  had  cause  to  hope.  But  as  I  am  now  about  to  quit 
you,  and  as  you  confess  you  feel  for  me  a  sister's  affection, 
will  you  give  me  leave  to  speak  to  you  as  a  brother  might  ?  " 

Madeline  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  frank  cordiality. 
"  Yes, "  said  she ;  "  speak !  " 

"Then,"  said  Walter,  turning  away  his  head  in  a  spirit  of 
delicacy  that  did  him  honor,  "  is  it  yet  all  too  late  for  me  to 
say  one  word  of  caution  that  relates  to  —  Eugene  Aram  ?" 

"Of  caution!  You  alarm  me,  Walter;  speak!  Has  aught 
happened  to  him?  I  saw  him  as  lately  as  yourself.  Does 
aught  threaten  him  ?     Speak,  I  implore  you,  quick!  " 

"I  know  of  no  danger  to  him!""  replied  Walter,  stung  to 
perceive  the  breathless  anxiety  with  which  Madeline  spoke; 
"  but  pause,  my  cousin :  may  there  be  no  danger  to  you  from 
this  man  ?  " 


EUGENE   ARAM.  107 

"Walter!" 

"I  grant  him  wise,  learned,  gentle, — nay,  more  than  all, 
bearing  about  him  a  spell,  a  fascination,  by  which  he  softens 
or  awes  at  will,  and  which  even  I  cannot  resist.  But  yet  his 
abstracted  mood,  his  gloomy  life,  certain  words  that  have 
broken  from  him  unawares,  certain  tell-tale  emotions  which 
words  of  mine,  heedlessly  said,  have  fiercely  aroused,  all 
united,  inspire  me  —  shall  I  say  it  ?  —  with  fear  and  distrust. 
I  cannot  think  him  altogether  the  calm  and  pure  being  he 
appears.  Madeline,  I  have  asked  myself  again  and  again.  Is 
this  suspicion  the  effect  of  jealousy  ?  Do  I  scan  his  bearing 
with  the  jaundiced  eye  of  disappointed  rivalship  ?  And  I 
have  satisfied  my  conscience  that  my  judgment  is  not  thus 
biassed.  Stay,  listen  yet  a  little  while!  You  have  a  high, 
a  thoughtful  mind.  Exert  it  now.  Consider,  your  whole 
happiness  rests  on  one  step !  Pause,  examine,  compare !  Re- 
member, you  have  not  of  Aram,  as  of  those  whom  you  have 
hitherto  mixed  with,  the  eye-witness  of  a  life.  You  can  know 
but  little  of  his  real  temper,  his  secret  qualities ;  still  less  of 
the  tenor  of  his  former  existence.  I  only  ask  of  you,  for  your 
own  sake,  for  my  sake,  your  sister's  sake,  and  your  good 
father's,  not  to  judge  too  rashly!  Love  him,  if  you  will;  but 
observe  him !  " 

"Have  you  done  ?"  said  Madeline,  who  had  hitherto  with 
difficulty  contained  herself.  "  Then  hear  me.  Was  it  I  —  was 
it  Madeline  Lester  —  whom  you  asked  to  play  the  watch,  to 
enact  the  spy  upon  the  man  whom  she  exults  in  loving  ? 
Was  it  not  enough  that  you  should  descend  to  mark  down 
each  incautious  look,  to  chronicle  every  heedless  word,  to 
draw  dark  deductions  from  the  unsuspecting  confidence  of  my 
father's  friend,  to  lie  in  wait,  to  hang  with  a  foe's  malignity 
upon  the  unbendings  of  familiar  intercourse,  to  extort  anger 
from  gentleness  itself,  that  you  might  wrest  the  anger  into 
crime  ?  Shame,  shame  upon  you  for  the  meanness !  And 
must  you  also  suppose  that  I,  to  whose  trust  he  has  given  his 
noble  heart,  will  receive  it  only  to  play  the  eavesdropper  to 
its  secrets  ?     Away !  " 

The  generous  blood  crimsoned  the  cheek  and  brow  of  this 


108  EUGENE  ARAM. 

high-spirited  girl  as  she  uttered  her  galling  reproof;  her  eyes 
sparkled,  her  lip  quivered,  her  whole  frame  seemed  to  have 
grown  larger  with  the  majesty  of  indignant  love. 

"Cruel,  unjust,  ungrateful!"  ejaculated  Walter,  pale  with 
rage,  and  trembling  under  the  conflict  of  his  roused  and 
wounded  feelings.  "Is  it  thus  you  answer  the  warning  of  too 
disinterested  and  self-forgetful  a  love  ?  " 

"  Love !  "  exclaimed  Madeline.  "  Grant  me  patience !  Love ! 
It  was  but  now  I  thought  myself  honored  by  the  affection  you 
said  you  bore  me.  At  this  instant  I  blush  to  have  called 
forth  a  single  sentiment  in  one  who  knows  so  little  what  love 
is !  Love !  Methought  that  word  denoted  all  that  was  high 
and  noble  in  human  nature,  —  confidence,  hope,  devotion,  sac- 
rifice of  all  thought  of  self!  But  you  would  make  it  the  type 
and  concentration  of  all  that  lowers  and  debases,  —  suspicion, 
cavil,  fear,  selfishness  in  all  its  shapes!     Out  on  you!    LoveT^ 

"Enough,  enough!  Say  no  more,  Madeline;  say  no  more. 
We  part  not  as  I  had  hoped ;  but  be  it  so.  You  are  changed 
indeed  if  your  conscience  smite  you  not  hereafter  for  this  in- 
justice. Farewell!  and  may  you  never  regret,  not  only  the 
heart  you  have  rejected,  but  the  friendship  you  have  belied." 
With  these  words,  and  choked  by  his  emotions,  Walter  hastily 
strode  away. 

He  hurried  into  the  house  and  into  a  little  room  adjoining 
the  chamber  in  which  he  slept,  and  which  had  been  also  ap- 
propriated solely  to  his  use.  It  was  now  spread  with  boxes 
and  trunks,  some  half-packed,  some  corded,  and  inscribed  with 
the  address  to  which  they  were  to  be  sent  in  London.  All 
these  mute  tokens  of  his  approaching  departure  struck  upon 
his  excited  feelings  with  a  suddenness  that  overpowered  him. 

"And  it  is  thus,  thus,"  said  he,  aloud,  "that  I  am  to  leave, 
for  the  first  time,  my  childhood's  home !  " 

He  threw  himself  on  his  chair,  and,  covering  his  face  with 
his  hands,  burst,  fairly  subdued  and  unmanned,  into  a  parox- 
ysm of  tears. 

When  this  emotion  was  over,  he  felt  as  if  his  love  for  Mad- 
eline had  also  disappeared;  a  sore  and  insulted  feeling  was 
all  that  her  image  now  recalled  to  him.     This  idea  gave  him 


EUGENE   ARAM.  109 

some  consolation.  "Thank  Heaven!"  he  muttered;  "thank 
Heaven,  I  am  cured  at  last  I  " 

The  thanksgiving  was  scarcely  over  before  the  door  opened 
softly,  and  Ellinor,  not  perceiving  him  where  he  sat,  entered 
the  room  and  laid  on  the  table  a  purse  which  she  had  long 
promised  to  knit  him,  and  which  seemed  now  designed  as  a 
parting  gift. 

She  sighed  heavily  as  she  laid  it  down,  and  he  observed  that 
her  eyes  seemed  red  as  with  weeping. 

He  did  not  move,  and  Ellinor  left  the  room  without  discov- 
ering him;  but  he  remained  there  till  dark,  musing  on  her 
apparition,  and  before  he  went  downstairs  he  took  up  the 
little  purse,  kissed  it,  and  put  it  carefully  into  his  bosom. 

He  sat  next  to  Ellinor  at  supper  that  evening;  and  though 
he  did  not  say  much,  his  last  words  were  more  to  her  than 
words  had  ever  been  before.  When  he  took  leave  of  her  for 
the  night,  he  whispered,  as  he  kissed  her  cheek,  "  God  bless 
you,  dearest  Ellinor!  and  till  I  return,  take  care  of  yourself, 
for  the  sake  of  one  who  loves  you  now  better  than  anything 
on  earth." 

Lester  had  just  left  the  room  to  write  some  letters  for 
Walter;  and  Madeline,  who  had  hitherto  sat  absorbed  and 
silent  by  the  window,  approached  Walter  and  offered  him 
her  hand. 

"Forgive  me,  my  dear  cousin,"  she  said,  in  her  softest  voice. 
"  I  feel  that  I  was  hasty,  and  to  blame.  Believe  me,  I  am  now 
at  least  grateful,  warmly  grateful,  for  the  kindness  of  your 
motives." 

"Not  so,"  said  Walter,  bitterly;  "the  advice  of  a  friend  is 
only  meanness." 

"Come,  come,  forgive  me;  pray  do  not  let  us  part  unkindly. 
When  did  we  ever  quarrel  before  ?  I  was  wrong,  —  griev- 
ously wrong.     I  will  perform  any  penance  you  may  enjoin." 

"Agreed,  then:  follow  my  admonitions." 

"Ah!  anything  else,"  said  Madeline,  gravely,  and  coloring 
deeply. 

Walter  said  no  more;  he  pressed  her  hand  lightly,  and 
turned  away. 


110  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"  Is  all  forgiven  ?  "  said  she,  in  so  bewitching  a  tone,  ana. 
with  so  bright  a  smile,  that  Walter,  against  his  conscience, 
answered  "Yes." 

The  sisters  left  the  room:  I  know  not  which  of  the  two 
received  his  last  glance. 

Lester  now  returned  with  the  letters.  "  There  is  one  charge, 
my  dear  boy,"  said  he,  in  concluding  the  moral  injunctions 
and  experienced  suggestions  with  which  the  young  generally 
leave  the  ancestral  home, —  "there  is  one  charge  which  I  need 
not  commend  to  your  ingenuity  and  zeal.  You  know  my 
strong  conviction  that  your  father,  my  poor  brother,  still 
lives.  Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you  to  exert  yourself  by 
all  ways  and  in  all  means  to  discover  some  clew  to  his  fate  ? 
Who  knows,"  added  Lester,  with  a  smile,  "but  that  you  may 
find  him  a  rich  nabob!  I  confess  that  I  should  feel  but  little 
surprise  if  it  were  so;  but  at  all  events  you  will  make  every 
possible  inquiry.  I  have  written  down  in  this  paper  the  few 
particulars  concerning  him  which  I  have  been  enabled  to  glean 
since  he  left  his  home,  —  the  places  where  he  was  last  seen, 
the  false  names  he  assumed,  etc.  I  shall  wait  with  great  anx- 
iety for  any  fuller  success  to  your  researches." 

"You  needed  not,  my  dear  uncle,  "said  Walter,  seriously,  "to 
have  spoken  to  me  on  this  subject.  No  one,  not  even  your- 
self, can  have  felt  what  I  have,  can  have  cherished  the  same 
anxiety,  nursed  the  same  hope,  indulged  the  same  conjecture. 
I  have  not,  it  is  true,  often  of  late  years  spoken  to  you  on  a 
matter  so  near  to  us  both;  but  I  have  spent  whole  hours  in 
guesses  at  my  father's  fate,  and  in  dreams  that  for  me  was 
reserved  the  proud  task  to  discover  it.  I  will  not  say,  indeed, 
that  it  makes  at  this  moment  the  chief  motive  for  my  desire 
to  travel,  but  in  travel  it  will  become  my  chief  object.  Per- 
haps I  may  find  him,  not  only  rich, —  that,  for  my  part,  is  but 
a  minor  wish, —  but  sobered,  and  reformed  from  the  errors  and 
wildness  of  his  earlier  manhood.  Oh,  what  should  be  his 
gratitude  to  you  for  all  the  care  with  which  you  have  supplied 
to  the  forsaken  child  the  father's  place;  and  not  the  least  that 
you  have,  in  softening  the  colors  of  his  conduct,  taught  me 
still  to  prize  and  seek  for  a  father's  love !  " 


EUGENE   ARAM.  Ill 

"  You  have  a  kind  heart,  Walter, "  said  tlie  good  old  man, 
pressing  his  nephew's  hand;  "and  that  has  more  than  repaid 
me  for  the  little  I  have  done  for  you.  It  is  better  to  sow  a 
good  heart  with  kindness  than  a  field  with  corn;  for  the 
heart's  harvest  is  perpetual." 

Many  and  earnest  that  night  were  the  meditations  of  Walter 
Lester.  He  was  about  to  quit  the  home  in  which  youth  had 
been  passed,  in  which  first  love  had  been  formed  and  blighted: 
the  world  was  before  him;  but  there  was  something  more 
grave  than  pleasure,  more  steady  than  enterprise,  that  beck- 
oned him  to  its  paths.  The  deep  mystery  that  for  so  many 
years  had  hung  over  the  fate  of  his  parent,  it  might  indeed 
be  his  lot  to  pierce;  and  with  a  common  Avaywardness  in  our 
nature,  the  restless  son  felt  his  interest  in  that  parent  the 
livelier,  from  the  very  circumstance  of  remembering  nothing 
of  his  person.  Affection  had  been  nursed  by  curiosity  and 
imagination ;  and  the  bad  father  was  thus  more  fortunate  in 
winning  the  heart  of  the  son,  than  had  he,  perhaps,  by  the 
tenderness  of  years,  deserved  that  affection. 

Oppressed  and  feverish,  Walter  opened  the  lattice  of  his 
room  and  looked  forth  on  the  night.  The  broad  harvest-moon 
was  in  the  heavens,  and  filled  the  air  as  with  a  softer  and 
holier  day.  At  a  distance  its  light  just  gave  the  dark  outline 
of  Aram's  house,  and  beneath  the  window  it  lay  bright  and 
steady  on  the  green,  still  church-yard,  that  adjoined  the  house. 
The  air  and  the  light  allayed  the  fitfulness  at  the  young  man's 
heart,  but  served  to  solemnize  the  project  and  desire  with 
which  it  beat.  Still  leaning  from  the  casement,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  tranquil  scene  below,  he  poured  forth  the 
prayer  that  to  his  hands  might  the  discovery  of  his  lost  sire 
be  granted.  The  prayer  seemed  to  lift  the  oppression  from  his 
breast;  he  felt  cheerful  and  relieved,  and,  flinging  himself  on 
his  bed,  soon  fell  into  the  sound  and  healthful  sleep  of  youth. 
And  oh!  let  youth  cherish  that  happiest  of  earthly  boons 
while  yet  it  is  at  its  command;  for  there  cometh  the  day  to 
all  when  "  neither  the  voice  of  the  lute  nor  the  birds  "  *  shall 
bring  back  the  sweet  slumbers  that  fell  on  their  young  eyes 

1  Non  avium  citharseque,  etc.  —  Horace. 


112  EUGENE   ARAM. 

as  unbidden  as  the  dews.  It  is  a  dark  epoch  in  a  man's  life 
when  sleep  forsakes  him;  when  he  tosses  to  and  fro,  and 
thought  will  not  be  silenced;  when  the  drug  and  draught  are 
the  courters  of  stupefaction,  not  sleep ;  when  the  down  pillow 
is  as  a  knotted  log;  when  the  eyelids  close  but  with  an  effort, 
and  there  is  a  drag  and  a  weight  and  a  dizziness  in  the  eyes 
at  morn.  Desire  and  grief  and  love,  these  are  the  young  man's 
torments;  but  they  are  the  creatures  of  time:  time  removes 
them  as  it  brings,  and  the  vigils  we  keep,  "while  the  evil 
days  come  not,"  if  weary,  are  brief  and  few.  But  memory 
and  care  and  ambition  and  avarice,  these  are  demon-gods  that 
defy  the  Time  that  fathered  them.  The  worldlier  passions 
are  the  growth  of  mature  years,  and  their  grave  is  dug  but  in 
our  own.  As  the  dark  spirits,  in  the  Northern  tale,  that 
watch  against  the  coming  of  one  of  a  brighter  and  holier  race, 
lest,  if  he  seize  them  unawares,  he  bind  them  prisoners  in  his 
chain,  they  keep  ward  at  night  over  the  entrance  of  that  deep 
cave,  the  human  heart,  and  scare  away  the  angel  Sleep. 


BOOK    11. 

'A/x<pi  8'  dp0p(Jb- 
vup  (ppealv  d/xTrXaKiai 
'Avapi6/j.aT0i  Kpip-avrai. 

TovTo  8'  dfidxcfou  evpeiv, 
"Ort  vvv,  Kal  iv  reXev- 

rq,  (pepraTov  dv8pl  rvxelv. 

Pindar  :  Ode  vii,  4. 

Paraphrase. 
Innumerous,  o'er  their  human  prey, 

Grim  errors  haug  the  hoarded  sorrow; 
Througii  vapor  gleams  the  preseut  day. 

And  darkness  wraps  the  morrow. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    MARRIAGE    SETTLED. LESTEr's    HOPES    AND    SCHEMES. 

GAYETY    OF    TEMPER. A    GOOD    SPECULATION. THE    TRUTH 

AND    FERVOR    OF    ARAm's    LOVE. 

Love  is  better  than  a  pair  of  spectacles  to  make  everything  seem  greater 
which  is  seen  through  it.  —  Sir  Philip  Sydney:  Arcadia. 

Aram's  affection  to  Madeline  having  now  been  formally 
announced  to  Lester,  and  Madeline's  consent  having  been 
somewhat  less  formally  obtained,  it  only  remained  to  fix  the 
time  for  their  wedding.  Though  Lester  forbore  to  question 
Aram  as  to  his  circumstances,  the  student  frankly  confessed 
that  if  not  affording  what  the  generality  of  persons  would 
consider  even  a  competence,  they  enabled  one  of  his  moderate 
wants  and  retired  life  (especially  in  the  remote  and  cheap 
district  in  which  they  lived)  to  dispense  with  all  fortune  in  a 
wife  who,  like  Madeline,  was,  equally  with  himself,  enamoured 


114  EUGENE   ARAM. 

of  obscurity.  The  good  Lester,  however,  proposed  to  bestow 
vipon  his  daughter  such  a  portion  as  might  allow  for  the  wants 
of  an  increased  family  or  the  probable  contingencies  of  Fate. 
For  though  Fortune  may  often  slacken  her  wheel,  there  is  no 
spot  in  which  she  suffers  it  to  be  wholly  still. 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  September,  aud  by  the  end  of  the 
ensuing  month  it  was  agreed  that  the  spousals  of  the  lovers 
should  be  held.  It  is  certain  that  Lester  felt  one  pang  for  his 
nephew  as  he  subscribed  to  this  proposal;  but  he  consoled 
himself  with  recurring  to  a  hope  he  had  long  cherished,  namely, 
that  Walter  would  return  home  not  only  cured  of  his  vain 
attachment  to  Madeline,  but  with  the  disposition  to  admit  the 
attractions  of  her  sister.  A  marriage  between  these  two 
cousins  had  for  years  been  his  favorite  project.  The  lively 
and  ready  temper  of  Ellinor,  her  household  turn,  her  merry 
laugh,  a  winning  playfulness  that  characterized  even  her  de- 
fects, were  all  more  after  Lester's  secret  heart  than  the  graver 
and  higher  nature  of  his  elder  daughter.  This  miglit  mainly 
be  that  they  were  traits  of  disposition  that  more  reminded  him 
of  his  lost  wife,  and  were,  therefore,  more  accordant  with  his 
ideal  standard  of  perfection;  but  I  incline  also  to  believe  that 
the  more  persons  advance  in  years,  the  more,  even  if  of  staid 
and  sober  temper  themselves,  they  love  gayety  aud  elasticity 
in  youth.  I  have  often  pleased  myself  by  observing,  in  some 
happy  family  circle  embracing  all  ages,  that  it  is  the  liveliest 
and  wildest  child  that  charms  the  grandsire  the  most.  And, 
after  all,  it  is  perhaps  with  characters  as  with  books, —  the 
grave  and  thoughtful  may  be  more  admired  than  the  light  and 
cheerful,  but  they  are  less  liked;  it  is  not  only  that  the  former, 
being  of  a  more  abstruse  and  recondite  nature,  find  fewer 
persons  capable  of  judging  of  their  merits,  but  also  that  the 
great  object  of  the  majority  of  human  beings  is  to  be  amused, 
and  that  they  naturally  incline  to  love  those  the  best  who 
amuse  them  most.  And  to  so  great  a  practical  extent  is  this 
preference  pushed  that  I  think  were  a  nice  observer  to  make 
a  census  of  all  those  who  have  received  legacies  or  dropped 
unexpectedly  into  fortunes,  he  would  find  that  where  one 
grave  disposition  had  so  benefited,  there  would   be  at   least 


EUGENE  ARAM.  115 

twenty  gay.  Perhaps,  however,  it  may  be  said  that  I  am 
here  taking  the  cause  for  the  effect. 

But  to  return  from  our  speculative  disquisitions.  Lester, 
then,  who,  though  he  had  so  slowly  discovered  his  nephew's 
passion  for  Madeline,  had  long  since  guessed  the  secret  of 
Ellinor's  affection  for  him,  looked  forward  with  a  hope  rather 
sanguine  than  anxious  to  the  ultimate  realization  of  his 
cherished  domestic  scheme.  And  he  pleased  himself  with 
thinking  that  when  all  soreness  would,  by  this  double  wed- 
ding, be  banished  from  Walter's  mind,  it  would  be  impossible 
to  conceive  a  family  group  more  united  or  more  happy. 

And  Ellinor  herself,  ever  since  the  parting  words  of  her 
cousin,  had  seemed,  so  far  from  being  inconsolable  for  his  ab- 
sence, more  bright  of  cheek  and  elastic  of  step  than  she  had 
been  for  months  before.  What  a  world  of  all  feelings  which 
forbid  despondence  lies  hoarded  in  the  hearts  of  the  young ! 
As  one  fountain  is  filled  by  the  channels  that  exhaust  an- 
other, we  cherish  wisdom  at  the  expense  of  hope.  It  thus 
happened,  from  one  cause  or  another,  that  Walter's  absence 
created  a  less  cheerless  blank  in  the  family  circle  than  might 
have  been  expected;  and  the  approaching  bridal  of  Madeline 
and  her  lover  naturally  diverted,  in  a  great  measure,  the 
thoughts  of  each,  and  engrossed  their  conversation. 

Whatever  might  be  Madeline's  infatuation  as  to  the  merits 
of  Aram,  one  merit  —  the  greatest  of  all  in  the  eyes  of  a 
woman  who  loves  —  he  at  least  possessed.  Never  was  mis- 
tress more  burningly  and  deeply  loved  than  she  who,  for  the 
first  time,  awoke  the  long-slumbering  passions  in  the  heart 
of  Eugene  Aram.  Every  day  the  ardor  of  his  affections 
seemed  to  increase.  With  what  anxiety  he  watched  her  foot- 
steps; with  what  idolatry  he  hung  upon  her  words;  with  what 
unspeakable  and  yearning  emotion  he  gazed  upon  the  change- 
ful eloquence  of  her  cheek !  Now  that  Walter  was  gone,  he 
almost  took  up  his  abode  at  the  manor-house.  He  came 
thither  in  the  early  morning,  and  rarely  returned  home  before 
the  family  retired  for  the  night;  and  even  then,  when  all  was 
hushed,  and  they  believed  him  in  his  solitary  home,  he  lin- 
gered for  hours  around  the  house  to  look  up  to  Madeline's 


116  EUGENE   ARAM. 

window,  charmed  to  the  spot  which  held  the  intoxication  of 
her  presence.  Madeline  discovered  this  habit,  and  chid  it; 
but  so  tenderly  that  it  was  not  cured.  And  still  at  times, 
by  the  autumnal  moon,  she  marked  from  her  window  his  dark 
figure  gliding  among  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  or  pausing  by 
the  lowly  tombs  in  the  still  church-yard, —  the  resting-place 
of  hearts  that  once,  perhaps,  beat  as  wildly  as  his  own. 

It  was  impossible  that  a  love  of  this  order,  and  from  one  so 
richly  gifted  as  Aram, —  a  love  which  in  substance  was  truth, 
and  yet  in  language  poetry, —  could  fail  wholly  to  subdue  and 
enthrall  a  girl  so  young,  so  romantic,  so  enthusiastic,  as  Made- 
line Lester.  How  intense  and  delicious  must  have  been  her 
sense  of  happiness!  In  the  pure  heart  of  a  girl  loving  for 
the  first  time,  love  is  far  more  ecstatic  than  in  man,  inas- 
much as  it  is  unfevered  by  desire ;  love,  then  and  there,  makes 
the  only  state  of  human  existence  which  is  at  once  capable 
of  calmness  and  transport. 


CHAPTER   II. 

A     FAVORABLE     SPECIMEN     OF    A    NOBLEMAN    AND    A     COURTIER. 
A    MAN    OF    SOME    FAULTS    AND    MANY    ACCOMPLISHMENTS. 

TiTiMus  Capito  is  to  rehearse.  He  is  a  man  of  an  excellent  disposition, 
and  to  be  num!)ered  among  the  chief  ornaments  of  his  age.  He  cultivates 
literature,  he  loves  men  of  learning,  etc.  —  Lord  Orrery  :  Pliny. 

About  this  time  the  Earl  of ,  the  great  nobleman  of 

the  district,  and  whose  residence  was  within  a  few  miles  of 
Grassdale,  came  down  to  pay  his  wonted  yearly  visit  to  his 
country  domains.  He  was  a  man  well  known  in  the  history 
of  the  times,  though  for  various  reasons  I  conceal  his  name. 
He  was  a  courtier,  —  deep,  Avily,  accomplished,  but  capable  of 
generous  sentiments  and  enlarged  views.  Though  from  re- 
gard to  his  interests  he  seized  and  lived  as  it  were  upon  the 
fleeting  spirit  of  the  day,  the  penetration  of  his  intellect  went 


EUGENE   ARA.AI.  117 

far  "beyond  its  reach.  He  claims  tlae  merit  of  having  been  the 
one  of  all  his  contemporaries  (Lord  Chesterfield  alone  excepted) 
who  most  clearly  saw  and  most  distinctly  prophesied  the  dark 
and  fearful  storm  that,  at  the  close  of  the  century,  burst  over 
France, —  visiting  indeed  the  sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the 
sons. 

From  the  small  circle  of  pompous  trifles  in  which  the  dwell- 
ers of  a  court  are  condemned  to  live,  and  which  he  brightened 
by  his  abilities  and  graced  by  his  accomplishments,  the  saga- 
cious and  far-sighted  mind  of  Lord  comprehended  the 

vast  field  without,  usually  invisible  to  those  of  his  habits  and 
profession.  Men  who  the  best  know  the  little  nucleus  which 
is  called  the  world  are  often  the  most  ignorant  of  mankind; 
but  it  was  the  peculiar  attribute  of  this  nobleman  that  he 
could  not  only  analyze  the  external  customs  of  his  species, 
but  also  penetrate  into  their  deeper  and  more  hidden  interests. 

The  works  and  correspondence  he  has  left  behind  him, 
though  far  from  voluminous,  testify  a  consummate  knowledge 
of  the  varieties  of  human  nature.  The  refinement  of  his  taste 
appears  less  remarkable  than  the  vigor  of  his  understanding. 
It  might  be  that  he  knew  the  vices  of  men  better  than  their 
virtues;  yet  he  was  no  shallow  disbeliever  in  the  latter, — he 
read  the  heart  too  accurately  not  to  know  that  it  is  guided  as 
often  by  its  affections  as  its  interests.  In  his  early  life  he 
had  incurred,  not  without  truth,  the  charge  of  licentiousness ; 
but  even  in  pursuit  of  pleasure  he  had  been  neither  weak  on 
the  one  hand,  nor  gross  on  the  other, — neither  the  headlong 
dupe  nor  the  callous  sensualist.  But  his  graces,  his  rank,  his 
wealth,  had  made  his  conquests  a  matter  of  too  easy  purchase ; 
and  hence,  like  all  voluptuaries,  the  part  of  his  worldly  know- 
ledge which  was  the  most  fallible  was  that  which  related  to  the 
sex.  He  judged  of  women  by  a  standard  too  distinct  from 
that  by  which  he  judged  of  men,  and  considered  those  foibles 
peculiar  to  the  sex  which  in  reality  are  incident  to  human 
nature. 

His  natural  disposition  was  grave  and  reflective;  and  though 
he  was  not  without  wit,  it  was  rarely  used.  He  lived,  neces- 
sarily, with  the  frivolous  and  the  ostentatious;  yet  ostenta- 


118  EUGENE   ARAM, 

tion  and  frivolity  were  charges  never  brought  against  himself. 
As  a  diplomatist  and  a  statesman,  he  was  of  the  old  and  erro- 
neous school  of  intriguers ;  but  his  favorite  policy  was  the  sci- 
ence of  conciliation.  He  was  one  who  would  so  far  have  suited 
the  present  age  that  no  man  could  better  have  steered  a  nation 
from  the  chances  of  war :  James  the  First  could  not  have  been 
inspired  with  a  greater  affection  for  peace;  but  the  peer's 
dexterity  would  have  made  that  peace  as  honorable  as  the 
king's  weakness  made  it  degraded.  Ambitious  to  a  certain 
extent,  but  neither  grasping  nor  mean,  he  never  obtained  for 
his  genius  the  full  and  extensive  field  it  probably  deserved. 
He  loved  a  happy  life  above  all  things;  and  he  knew  that, 
while  activity  is  the  spirit,  fatigue  is  the  bane,  of  happiness. 

In  his  day  he  enjoyed  a  large  share  of  that  public  attention 
which  generally  bequeaths  fame;  yet  from  several  causes  (of 
which  his  own  moderation  is  not  the  least),  his  present  repu- 
tation is  infinitely  less  great  than  the  opinions  of  his  most 
distinguished  contemporaries  foreboded. 

It  is  a  more  difficult  matter  for  men  of  high  rank  to  become 
illustrious  to  posterity  than  for  persons  in  a  sterner  and  more 
wholesome  walk  of  life.  Even  the  greatest  among  the  distin- 
guished men  of  the  patrician  order  suffer  in  the  eyes  of  the 
after-age  for  the  very  qualities,  chiefly  dazzling  defects  or 
brilliant  eccentricities,  which  made  them  most  popularly  re- 
markable in  their  day.  Men  forgive  Burns  his  amours  and 
his  revellings  with  greater  ease  than  they  will  forgive  Boling- 
broke  and  Byron  for  the  same  offences. 

Our  earl  was  fond  of  the  society  of  literary  men ;  he  himself 
was  well,  perhaps  even  deeply,  read.  Certainly  his  intellect- 
ual acquisitions  were  more  profound  than  they  have  been  gen- 
erally esteemed,  though,  with  the  common  subtlety  of  a  ready 
genius,  he  could  make  the  quick  adaptation  of  a  timely  fact, 
acquired  for  the  occasion,  appear  the  rich  overflowing  of  a  co- 
pious erudition.  He  was  a  man  who  instantly  perceived  and 
liberally  acknowledged  the  merits  of  others.  No  connoisseur 
had  a  more  felicitous  knowledge  of  the  arts,  or  was  more  just 
in  the  general  objects  of  his  patronage.  In  short,  what  with 
all  his  advantages,  he  was  one  whom  an  aristocracy  may  boast 


EUGENE  ARAM.  119 

of,  thougli  a  people  may  forget ;  and  if  not  a  great  man,  was 
at  least  a  most  remarkable  lord. 

The  Earl  of ,  in  his  last  visit  to  his  estates,  had  not 

forgotten  to  seek  out  the  eminent  scholar  who  shed  an  honor 
upon  his  neighborhood.  He  had  been  greatly  struck  with  the 
bearing  and  conversation  of  Aram;  and  with  the  usual  felicity 
with  which  the  accomplished  earl  adapted  his  nature  to  those 
with  whom  he  was  thrown,  he  had  succeeded  in  ingratiating 
himself  with  Aram  in  return.  He  could  not,  indeed,  persuade 
the  haughty  and  solitary  student  to  visit  him  at  the  castle; 
but  the  earl  did  not  disdain  to  seek  any  one  from  whom  he 
could  obtain  instruction,  and  he  had  twice  or  thrice  volunta- 
rily encountered  Aram,  and  effectually  drawn  him  from  his 
reserve.  The  earl  now  heard,  with  some  pleasure  and  more 
surprise,  that  the  austere  recluse  was  about  to  be  married  to 
the  beauty  of  the  county,  and  he  resolved  to  seize  the  first  oc- 
casion to  call  at  the  manor-house  to  offer  his  compliments  and 
congratulations  to  its  inmates. 

Sensible  men  of  rank,  who  having  enjoyed  their  dignity 
from  their  birth  may  reasonably  be  expected  to  grow  occasion- 
ally tired  of  it,  often  like  mixing  with  those  the  most  who  are 
the  least  dazzled  by  the  condescension, —  I  do  not  mean  to  say 
with  the  vulgar  parvenus  who  mistake  rudeness  for  inde- 
pendence; no  man  forgets  respect  to  another  who  knows  the 
value  of  respect  to  himself.  But  the  respect  should  be  paid 
easily;  it  is  not  every  Grand  Seigneur  who,  like  Louis  the 
Fourteenth,  is  only  pleased  when  he  puts  those  he  addresses 
out  of  countenance. 

There  was,  therefore,  much  in  the  simplicity  of  Lester's 
manners  and  those  of  his  daughters  which  rendered  the  family 

at   the   manor-house  especial  favorites  with  Lord ;  and 

the  wealthier  but  less  honored  squirearchs  of  the  county,  stiff 
in  awkward  pride,  and  bustling  with  yet  more  awkward  ven- 
eration, heard  with  astonishment  and  anger  of  the  numerous 
visits  which  his  lordship,  in  his  brief  sojourn  at  the  castle, 
always  contrived  to  pay  to  the  Lesters,  and  the  constant  invi- 
tations which  they  received  to  his  most  familiar  festivities. 

Lord was  no  sportsman;    and  one  morning,   when  all 


120  EUGENE   ARAM. 

liis  guests  were  engaged  among  the  stubbles  of  September,  he 
mounted  his  quiet  palfrey  and  gladly  took  his  way  to  the 
manor-house. 

It  was  towards  the  latter  end  of  the  month,  and  one  of  the 
earliest  of  the  autumnal  fogs  hung  thinly  over  the  landscape. 
As  the  earl  wound  along  the  sides  of  the  hill  on  which  his 
castle  was  built,  the  scene  on  which  he  gazed  below  received 
from  the  gray  mists  capriciously  hovering  over  it  a  dim  and 
melancholy  wildness.  A  broader  and  whiter  vapor,  that 
streaked  the  lower  part  of  the  valley,  betrayed  the  course  of 
the  rivulet;  and  beyond,  to  the  left,  rose,  wan  and  spectral, 
the  spire  of  the  little  church  adjoining  Lester's  abode.  As 
the  horseman's  eye  wandered  to  this  spot,  the  sun  suddenly 
broke  forth  and  lit  up  as  by  enchantment  the  quiet  and  lovely 
hamlet  embedded,  as  it  were,  beneath,  —  the  cottages,  with 
their  gay  gardens  and  jasmined  porches ;  the  streamlet  half  in 
mist,  half  in  light;  while  here  and  there  columns  of  vapor 
rose  above  its  surface  like  the  chariots  of  the  water-genii,  and 
broke  into  a  thousand  hues  beneath  the  smiles  of  the  unex- 
pected sun.  But  far  to  the  right,  the  mists  around  it  yet  un- 
broken, and  the  outline  of  its  form  only  visible,  rose  the  lone 
house  of  the  student,  as  if  there  the  sadder  spirits  of  the  air 
yet  rallied  their  broken  armament  of  mist  and  shadow. 

The  earl  was  not  a  man  peculiarly  alive  to  scenery,  but  he 
now  involuntarily  checked  his  horse  and  gazed  for  a  few  mo- 
ments on  the  beautiful  and  singular  aspect  which  the  land- 
scape had  so  suddenly  assumed.  As  he  so  gazed,  he  observed 
in  a  field  at  some  little  distance  three  or  four  persons  gathered 
round  a  bank,  and  among  them  he  thought  he  recognized  the 
comely  form  of  Rowland  Lester.  A  second  inspection  con- 
vinced him  that  he  was  right  in  his  conjecture,  and  turning 
from  the  road  through  a  gap  in  the  hedge,  he  made  towards 
the  group  in  question.  He  had  not  proceeded  far  before  he 
saw  that  the  remainder  of  the  party  was  composed  of  Lester's 
daughters,  the  lover  of  the  elder,  and  a  fourth,  whom  he  rec- 
ognized as  a  celebrated  French  botanist  who  had  lately  arrived 
in  England,  and  who  was  now  making  an  amateur  excursion 
throughout  the  more  attractive  districts  of  the  island. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  121 

The  earl  guessed  rightly  that  Monsieur  de  N had  not 

neglected  to  apply  to  Aram  for  assistance  in  a  pursuit  which 
the  latter  was  known  to  have  cultivated  with  such  success,  and 
that  he  had  been  conducted  hither  as  to  a  place  affording  some 
specimen  or  another  not  unworthy  of  research.  He  now,  giv- 
ing his  horse  to  his  groom,  joined  the  group. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHEREIN   THE   EARL    AND    THE    STUDENT    CONVERSE   ON     GRAVE 

BUT  DELIGHTFUL  MATTERS. THE  STUDENt's  NOTION  OF  THE 

ONLY   EARTHLY    HAPPINESS. 

Aram.     If  the  witch  Hope  forbids  ns  to  be  wise. 
Yet  when  I  turn  to  these,  Woe's  ouly  frieuds  (pointing  to  his  bocJcs), 
And  with  their  weird  and  eloquent  voices  calm 
The  stir  and  Babel  of  the  world  within, 
I  can  but  dream  that  my  vexed  years  at  last 
Shall  find  the  quiet  of  a  hermit's  cell ; 
And,  neighboring  not  this  worn  and  jaded  world. 
Beneath  the  lambent  eyes  of  the  loved  stars, 
And  with  the  hollow  rocks  and  sparry  caves, 
The  tides,  and  all  the  many-ninsicked  winds, 
My  oracles  and  co-mates,  watch  my  life 
Glide  down  the  Stream  of  Knowledge,  and  behold 
Its  waters  with  a  musing  stillness  glass 
The  thousand  hues  of  Nature  and  of  Heaven. 

Eugene  Aram  (a  MS.  Tragedy). 

The  earl  continued  with  the  party  he  had  joined ;  and  when 
their  occupation  was  concluded,  and  they  turned  homeward, 
he  accepted  the  squire's  frank  invitation  to  partake  of  some 
refreshment  at  the  manor-house.  It  so  chanced,  or  perhaps 
the  earl  so  contrived  it,  that  Aram  and  himself,  in  their  way 
to  the  village,  lingered  a  little  behind  the  rest,  and  that  their 
conversation  was  thus,  for  a  few  minutes,  not  altogether 
general. 


122  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"Is  it  I,  Mr.  Aram,"  said  the  earl,  smiling,  "or  is  it  Fate 
that  has  made  you  a  convert  ?  The  last  time  we  sagely  and 
quietly  conferred  together,  you  contended  that  the  more  the 
circle  of  existence  was  contracted,  the  more  we  ^lung  to  a 
state  of  pure  and  all  self-dependent  intellect,  the  greater  our 
chance  of  happiness.  Thus  you  denied  that  we  were  rendered 
happier  by  our  luxuries,  by  our  ambition,  or  by  our  affections. 
Love  and  its  ties  were  banished  from  your  solitary  Utopia, 
and  you  asserted  that  the  true  wisdom  of  life  lay  solely  in  the 
cultivation,  not  of  our  feelings,  but  our  faculties.  You  know 
I  held  a  different  doctrine  j  and  it  is  with  the  natural  triumph 
of  a  hostile  partisan  that  I  hear  you  are  about  to  relinquish 
the  practice  of  one  of  your  dogmas, —  in  consequence,  may  I 
hope,  of  having  forsworn  the  theor}'-?" 

"Not  so,  my  lord,"  answered  Aram,  coloring  slightly;  "my 
weakness  only  proves  that  my  theory  is  difficult, — not  that  it 
is  wrong.  I  still  venture  to  think  it  true.  More  pain  than 
pleasure  is  occasioned  us  by  others:  banish  others,  and  you 
are  necessarily  the  gainer.  Mental  activity  and  moral  quie- 
tude are  the  two  states  which,  were  they  perfected  and  united, 
would  blend  into  happiness.  It  is  such  a  union  which  consti- 
tutes all  we  imagine  of  heaven,  or  conceive  of  the  majestic 
felicity  of  a  God." 

"  Yet  while  you  are  on  earth  you  will  be,  believe  me,  hap- 
pier in  the  state  you  are  about  to  choose,"  said  the  earl. 
"Who  could  look  at  that  enchanting  face,"  the  speaker  di- 
rected his  eyes  towards  Madeline,  "and  not  feel  that  it  gave 
a  pledge  of  happiness  that  could  not  be  broken  ?  " 

It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  Aram  to  like  any  allusion  to 
himself,  and  still  less  to  his  affections;  he  turned  aside  his 
head,  and  remained  silent.  The  wary  earl  discovered  his 
indiscretion  immediately. 

"But  let  us  put  aside  individual  cases,"  said  he, —  "the 
meum,  and  the  tuum  forbid  all  general  argument,  —  and  confess 
that  there  is  for  the  majority  of  human  beings  a  greater  hap- 
piness in  love  than  in  the  sublime  state  of  passionless  intellect 
to  which  you  would  so  chillingly  exalt  us.  Has  not  Cicero 
said,  wisely,  that  we  ought  no  more  to  subject  too  slavishly  our 


EUGENE   ARAM.  123 

affections  than  to  elevate  them  too  imperiously  into  our  mas- 
ters ?     JSfeque  se  nimiuin  erigere,  nee  subjaeere  serviliter.^' 

"  Cicero  loved  philosophizing  better  than  philosophy, "  said 
Aram,  coldly.  "But  surely,  my  lord,  the  affections  give  us 
pain  as  well  as  pleasure  ?  The  doubt,  the  dread,  the  restless- 
ness of  love, —  surely  these  prevent  the  passion  from  consti- 
tuting a  happy  state  of  mind  ?  To  me,  one  knowledge  alone 
seems  sufficient  to  embitter  all  its  enjoyments, — the  know- 
ledge that  the  object  beloved  must  die.  What  a  perpetuity 
of  fear  that  knowledge  creates!  The  avalanche  that  may 
crush  us  depends  upon  a  single  breath." 

"  Is  not  that  too  refined  a  sentiment  ?  Custom  surely  blunts 
us  to  every  chance,  every  danger,  that  may  happen  to  us 
hourly.  Were  the  avalanche  over  you  for  a  day,  I  grant  your 
state  of  torture;  but  had  an  avalanche  rested  over  you  for 
years,  and  not  yet  fallen,  you  would  forget  that  it  could  ever 
fall, —  you  would  eat,  sleep,  and  make  love  as  if  it  were  not." 

"Ha!  my  lord,  you  say  well,  you  say  well,"  said  Aram, 
with  a  marked  change  of  countenance;  and  quickening  his 
pace,  he  joined  Lester's  side,  and  the  thread  of  the  previous 
conversation  was  broken  off. 

The  earl  afterwards,  in  walking  through  the  garden  (an 
excursion  which  he  proposed  himself,  for  he  was  somewhat  of 
an  horticulturist),  took  an  opportunity  to  renew  the  subject. 

"You  will  pardon  me,"  said  he,  "but  I  cannot  convince 
myself  that  man  would  be  happier  were  he  without  emotions, 
and  that  to  enjoy  life  he  should  be  solely  dependent  on 
himself." 

"  Yet  it  seems  to  me, "  said  Aram,  "  a  truth  easy  of  proof. 
If  we  love^  we  place  our  happiness  in  others.  The  moment 
we  place  our  happiness  in  others,  comes  uncertainty;  but  un- 
certainty is  the  bane  of  happiness.  Children  are  the  source 
of  anxiety  to  their  parents ;  his  mistress  to  the  lover.  Change, 
accident,  death,  all  menace  us  in  each  person  whom  we  regard. 
Every  new  affection  opens  new  channels  by  which  grief  can 
invade  us, — but,  you  will  say,  by  which  joy  also  can  flow  in: 
granted.  But  in  human  life  is  there  not  more  grief  than  joy  ? 
What  is  it  that  renders  the  balance  even  ?    What  makes  the 


124  EUGENE  ARAM. 

staple  of  our  happiness, —  endearing  to  us  the  life  at  which  we 
should,  otherwise  repine  ?  It  is  the  mere  passive,  yet  stirring, 
consciousness  of  life  itself;  of  the  sun  and  the  air;  of  the 
physical  being:  but  this  consciousness  every  emotion  disturbs. 
Yet  could  you  add  to  its  tranquillity  an  excitement  that  never 
exhausts  itself,  that  becomes  refreshed,  not  sated,  with  every 
new  possession,  then  you  would  obtain  happiness.  There  is 
only  one  excitement  of  this  divine  order, —  that  of  intellectual 
culture.  Behold  now  my  theory!  Examine  it, —  it  contains 
no  flaw.  But  if,"  renewed  Aram,  after  a  pause,  "a  man  is 
subject  to  fate  solely  in  himself,  not  in  others,  he  soon  hardens 
his  mind  against  all  fear,  and  prepares  it  for  all  events.  A 
little  philosophy  enables  him  to  bear  bodily  pain  or  the  com- 
mon infirmities  of  flesh ;  by  a  philosophy  somewhat  deeper  he 
can  conquer  the  ordinary  reverses  of  fortune,  the  dread  of 
shame,  and  the  last  calamity  of  death.  But  what  philosophy 
could  ever  thoroughly  console  him  for  the  ingratitude  of  a 
friend,  the  worthlessness  of  a  child,  the  death  of  a  mistress  ? 
Hence,  only  when  he  stands  alone  can  a  man's  soul  say  to 
Fate,  'I  defy  thee.'" 

"You  think,  then,"  said  the  earl,  reluctantly  diverting  the 
conversation  into  a  new  channel,  "that  in  the  pursuit  of 
knowledge  lies  our  only  active  road  to  real  happiness  ?  Yet 
here  how  eternal  must  be  the  disappointments  even  of  the 
most  successful !  Does  not  Boyle  tell  us  of  a  man  who,  after 
devoting  his  whole  life  to  the  study  of  one  mineral,  confessed 
himself,  at  last,  ignorant  of  all  its  properties  ?  " 

"Had  the  object  of  his  study  been  himself,  and  not  the 
mineral,  he  would  not  have  been  so  unsuccessful  a  student," 
said  Aram,  smiling.  "Yet,"  added  he,  in  a  graver  tone,  "we 
do  indeed  cleave  the  vast  heaven  of  Truth  with  a  weak  and 
crippled  wing,  and  often  we  are  appalled  in  our  way  by  a 
dread  sense  of  the  immensity  around  us,  and  of  the  inadequacy 
of  our  own  strength.  But  there  is  a  rapture  in  the  breath  of 
the  pure  and  difficult  air,  and  in  the  progress  by  which  we 
compass  earth,  the  while  we  draw  nearer  to  the  stars,  that 
again  exalts  us  beyond  ourselves,  and  reconciles  the  true 
student  unto  all  things,  even  to  the  hardest  of  them  all, — the 


EUGENE  ARAM.  125 

conviction  how  feebly  our  performance  can  ever  imitate  the 
grandeur  of  our  ambition !     As  you  see  the  spark  fly  upward, 

—  sometimes  not  falling  to  earth  till  it  be  dark  and  quenched, 

—  thus  soars,  whither  it  recks  not,  so  that  the  direction  be 
above,  the  luminous  spirit  of  him  who  aspires  to  Truth;  nor 
will  it  back  to  the  vile  and  heavy  clay  from  which  it  sprang 
until  the  light  which  bore  it  upward  be  no  more !  " 


CHAPTER   IV. 

A    DEEPER    EXAMIIVATTOX    INTO     THE     STUDENt's     HEART. THE 

VISIT    TO    THE    CASTLE. PHILOSOPHY    PUT    TO    THE    TRIAL. 

I  WEIGH  not  Fortune's  frown  or  smile, 

I  joy  not  mucli  iu  earthly  joys  ; 
I  seek  not  state,  I  seek  not  style, 

I  am  not  fond  of  Fancy's  toys  : 
I  rest  so  ])leased  with  what  I  have, 
1  wish  no  more,  no  more  I  crave. 

Josh LA  Sylvester. 

The  reader  will  pardon  me  if  I  somewhat  clog  his  interest 
in  my  tale  by  the  didactic  character  of  brief  conversations  I 
have  just  given,  and  which  I  am  compelled  to  renew.  It  is 
not  only  the  history  of  his  life,  but  the  character  and  tone 
of  Aram's  mind,  that  I  wish  to  stamp  upon  my  page.  Fortu- 
Xiately,  however,  the  path  my  story  assumes  is  of  such  a  nature 
that  in  order  to  effect  this  object  I  shall  never  have  to  desert, 
and  scarcely  again  even  to  linger  by,  the  way. 

Every  one  knows  the  magnificent  moral  of  Goethe's  "Faust." 
Every  one  knows  that  sublime  discontent,  that  chafing  at  the 
bounds  of  human  knowledge,  that  yearning  for  the  intellect- 
ual Paradise  beyond,  which  "  the  sworded  angel "  forbids  us 
to  approach,  that  daring  yet  sorrowful  state  of  mind,  that 
sense  of  defeat  even  in  conquest,  which  Goethe  has  embodied, 
—  a  picture  of  the  loftiest  grief  of  which  the  soul  is  capable, 
and  which  may  remind  us  of  the  profound  and  august  melan- 


126  EUGENE  ARAM. 

choly  which  the  Great  Sculptor  breathed  into  the  repose  of 
the  noblest  of  mythological  heroes  when  he  represented  the 
god  resting  after  his  labors,  as  if  more  convinced  of  their  van- 
ity than  elated  with  their  extent. 

In  this  portrait,  the  grandeur  of  which  the  wild  scenes  that 
follow  in  the  drama  we  refer  to,  do  not  —  strangely  wonderful 
as  they  are  —  perhaps  altogether  sustain,  Goethe  has  be- 
queathed to  the  gaze  of  a  calmer  and  more  practical  posterity 
the  burning  and  restless  spirit,  —  the  feverish  desire  for  know- 
ledge more  vague  than  useful,  which  characterized  the  exact 
epoch  in  the  intellectual  history  of  Germany  in  which  the 
poem  was  inspired  and  produced. 

At  these  bitter  waters,  the  Marah  of  the  streams  of  Wis- 
dom, the  soul  of  the  man  whom  we  have  made  the  hero  of 
these  pages  had  also,  and  not  lightly,  quaffed.  The  properties 
of  a  mind  more  calm  and  stern  than  belonged  to  the  vision- 
aries of  the  Hartz  and  the  Danube  might  indeed  have  pre- 
served him  from  that  thirst  for  the  Impossible  which  gives  so 
peculiar  a  romance,  not  only  to  the  poetry,  but  the  philosophy, 
of  the  German  people.  But  if  he  rejected  the  superstitions, 
he  did  not  also  reject  the  bewilderments,  of  the  mind.  He 
loved  to  plunge  into  the  dark  and  metaphysical  subtleties 
which  human  genius  has  called  daringly  forth  from  the  reali- 
ties of  things, — 

"  To  spin 
A  shroud  of  thought,  to  hide  him  from  the  sun 
Of  this  familiar  life  whicli  seems  to  be, 
But  is  not,  or  is  but  quaint  mockery 
Of  all  we  would  believe ;  or  sadly  blame 
The  jarring  and  inexplicable  frame 
Of  this  wrong  world,  and  then  anatomize 
The  purposes  and  thoughts  of  man,  whose  eyes 
Were  closed  in  distant  years ;  or  widely  guess 
The  issue  of  the  earth's  great  business 
When  we  shall  be,  as  we  no  longer  are, 
Like  babbling  gossips,  safe,  who  hear  the  war 
Of  winds,  and  sigh,  but  tremble  not !  " 

Much  in  him  was  a  type,  or  rather  forerunner,  of  the  intel- 
lectual spirit  that  broke  forth  among  our  countrymen  when  we 


EUGENE  ARAM.  127 

were  children,  and  is  now  slowly  dying  away  amidst  the  loud 
events  and  absorbing  struggles  of  the  awakening  world.  But 
in  one  respect  he  stood  aloof  from  all  his  tribe, —  in  his  hard 
indifEerence  to  worldly  ambition  and  his  contempt  of  fame. 
As  some  sages  have  considered  the  universe  a  dream,  and  self 
the  only  reality,  so  in  his  austere  and  collected  reliance  upon 
his  own  mind, —  the  gathering  in,  as  it  were,  of  his  resources, 
—  he  appeared  to  regard  the  pomps  of  the  world  as  shadows, 
and  the  life  of  his  own  spirit  the  only  substance.  He  had 
built  a  city  and  a  tower  within  the  Shinar  of  his  own  heart, 
whence  he  might  look  forth,  unscathed  and  unmoved,  upon 
the  deluge  that  broke  over  the  rest  of  earth. 

Only  in  one  instance,  and  that,  as  we  have  seen,  after  much 
struggle,  he  had  given  way  to  the  emotions  that  agitate  his 
kind,  and  had  surrendered  himself  to  the  dominion  of  another. 
This  was  against  his  theories, — but  what  theories  ever  resist 
love  ?  In  yielding,  however,  thus  far,  he  seemed  more  on 
his  guard  than  ever  against  a  broader  encroachment.  He  had 
admitted  one  "fair  spirit"  for  his  "minister,"  but  it  was  only 
with  a  deeper  fervor  to  invoke  "the  desert"  as  "his  dwelling- 
place."  Thus  when  the  earl, — who,  like  most  practical  judges 
of  mankind,  loved  to  apply  to  each  individual  the  motives 
that  actuate  the  mass,  and  who  only  unwillingly,  and  some- 
what sceptically,  assented  to  the  exceptions,  and  was  driven 
to  search  for  peculiar  clews  to  the  eccentric  instance, —  find- 
ing, to  his  secret  triumph,  that  Aram  had  admitted  one  in- 
truding emotion  into  his  boasted  circle  of  indifference,  im- 
agined that  he  should  easily  induce  him  (the  spell  once 
broken)  to  receive  another,  he  was  surprised  and  puzzled  to 
discover  himself  in  the  wrong. 

Lord at  that  time  had  been  lately  called  into  the  Ad- 
ministration, and  he  was  especially  anxious  to  secure  the  sup- 
port of  all  the  talent  that  he  could  enlist  on  his  behalf.  The 
times  were  those  in  which  party  ran  high,  and  in  which  in- 
dividual political  writings  were  honored  with  an  importance 
which  the  periodical  press  in  general  has  now  almost  wholly 
monopolized.  On  the  side  opposed  to  Government,  writers  of 
great  name  and  high   attainments   had  shone  with  peculiar 


128  EUGENE  ARAM. 

effect,  and  the  earl  was  naturally  desirous  that  they  should  be 
opposed  by  an  equal  array  of  intellect  on  the  side  espoused  by 
himself.  The  name  alone  of  Eugene  Aram,  at  a  day  when 
scholarship  was  renown,  would  have  been  no  ordinary  acquisi- 
tion to  the  cause  of  the  earl's  party;  but  that  judicious  and 
penetrating  nobleman  perceived  tliat  Aram's  abilities,  his  va- 
rious research,  his  extended  views,  his  facility  of  argument, 
and  the  heat  and  energy  of  his  eloquence,  might  be  rendered 
of  an  importance  which  could  not  have  been  anticipated  from 
the  name  alone,  however  eminent,  of  a  retired  and  sedentary 
scholar.  He  was  not,  therefore,  without  an  interested  motive 
in  the  attentions  he  now  lavished  upon  the  student,  and  in  his 
curiosity  to  put  to  the  proof  the  disdain  of  all  worldly  enter- 
prise and  worldly  temptation  Avhich  Aram  affected.  He  could 
not  but  think  that,  to  a  man  poor  and  lowly  of  circumstance, 
conscious  of  superior  acquirements,  about  to  increase  his 
wants  by  admitting  to  them  a  partner,  and  arrived  at  that  age 
when  the  calculations  of  interest  and  the  whispers  of  ambition 
have  usually  most  weight, —  he  could  not  but  think  that  to 
such  a  man  the  dazzling  prospects  of  social  advancement,  the 
hope  of  the  high  fortunes  and  the  powerful  and  glittering  in- 
fluence which  political  life  in  England  offers  to  the  aspirant, 
might  be  rendered  altogether  irresistible. 

He  took  several  opportunities,  in  the  course  of  the  next 
week,  of  renewing  his  conversation  with  Aram,  and  of  art- 
fully turning  it  into  the  channels  which  he  thought  most  likely 
to  produce  the  impression  he  desired  to  create.  He  was 
somewhat  baffled,  but  by  no  means  dispirited,  in  his  attempts; 
but  he  resolved  to  defer  his  ultimate  proposition  until  it  could 
be  made  to  the  fullest  advantage.  He  had  engaged  the  Les- 
ters  to  promise  to  pass  a  day  at  the  castle;  and  with  great 
difficulty,  and  at  the  earnest  intercession  of  Madeline,  Aram 
was  prevailed  upon  to  accompany  them.  So  extreme  was  his 
distaste  to  general  society,  and,  from  some  motive  or  another 
more  powerful  than  mere  constitutional  reserve,  so  invariably 
had  he  for  years  refused  all  temptations  to  enter  it,  that, 
natural  as  this  concession  was  rendered  by  his  ai)proaching 
marriage  to  one  of  the  party,  it  filled  him  with  a  sort  of  terror 


EUGENE  ARAM.  129 

and  foreboding  of  evil.  It  was  as  if  he  were  passing  beyond 
the  boundary  of  some  law  on  which  the  very  tenure  of  his 
existence  depended.  After  he  had  consented,  a  trembling 
came  over  him,  he  hastily  left  the  room,  and,  till  the  day  ar- 
rived, was  observed  by  his  friends  of  the  manor-house  to  be 
more  gloomy  and  abstracted  than  they  ever  had  known  him, 
even  at  the  earliest  period  of  acquaintance. 

On  the  day  itself,  as  they  proceeded  to  the  castle,  Madeline 
perceived,  with  a  tearful  repentance  of  her  interference,  that 
he  sat  by  her  side  cold  and  rapt,  and  that  once  or  twice,  when 
his  eyes  dwelt  upon  her,  it  was  with  an  expression  of  reproach 
and  distrust. 

It  was  not  till  they  entered  the  lofty  hall  of  the  castle,  when 
a  viilgar  diiUdence  would  have  been  most  abashed,  that  Aram 
recovered  himself.  The  earl  was  standing,  the  centre  of  a 
group  in  the  recess  of  a  window  in  the  saloon,  opening  upon 
an  extensive  and  stately  terrace.  He  came  forward  to  receive 
them  with  the  polished  and  warm  kindness  which  he  be- 
stowed upon  all  his  inferiors  in  rank.  He  complimented  the 
sisters,  he  jested  with  Lester;  but  to  Aram  only  he  manifested 
less  the  courtesy  of  kindness  than  of  respect.  He  took  his 
arm,  and  leaning  on  it  with  a  light  touch,  led  him  to  the  group 
at  the  windoAv.  It  was  composed  of  the  most  distinguished 
public  men  in  the  country,  and  among  them  (the  earl  himself 
was  connected,  through  an  illegitimate  branch,  with  the  reign- 
ing monarch)  was  a  prince  of  the  blood  royal. 

To  these,  whom  he  had  prepared  for  the  introduction,  he 
severally,  and  with  an  easy  grace,  presented  Aram ;  and  then 
falling  back  a  few  steps,  he  watched,  with  a  keen  but  seem- 
ingly careless  eye,  the  effect  which  so  sudden  a  contact  with 
royalty  itself  would  produce  on  the  mind  of  the  shy  and  se- 
cluded student  Avhom  it  Avas  his  object  to  dazzle  and  over- 
power. It  Avas  at  this  moment  that  the  native  dignity  of 
Aram,  which  his  studies,  unAvorldly  as  they  were,  had  cer- 
tainly tended  to  increase,  displayed  itself,  in  a  trial  which, 
poor  as  it  Avas  in  abstract  theory,  was  far  from  despicable  in 
the  eyes  of  the  sensible  and  practised  courtier.  He  received 
with  his  usual  modesty,  but  not  Avith  his  usual  shrinking  and 

9 


130  EUGENE  ARAM. 

embarrassment  on  such  occasions,  the  compliments  he  received; 
a  certain  and  far  from  ungraceful  pride  was  mingled  with  his 
simplicity  of  demeanor;  no  fluttering  of  manner  betrayed  that 
he  was  either  dazzled  or  humbled  by  the  presence  in  which  he 
stood ;  and  the  earl  could  not  but  confess  that  there  was  never 
a  more  favorable  opportunity  for  comparing  the  aristocracy  of 
genius  with  that  of  birth, —  it  was  one  of  those  homely,  every- 
day triumphs  of  intellect  which  please  us  more  than  they 
ought  to  do,  for,  after  all,  they  are  more  common  than  the 
men  of  courts  are  willing  to  believe. 

Lord did  not,  however,  long  leave  Aram  to  the  support 

of  his  own  unassisted  presence  of  mind  and  calmness  of  nerve; 
he  advanced,  and  led  the  conversation,  with  his  usual  tact, 
into  a  course  which  might  at  once  please  Aram  and  afford  him 
the  opportunity  to  shine.  The  earl  had  imported  from  Italy 
some  of  the  most  beautiful  specimens  of  classic  sculpture 
which  this  country  now  possesses.  These  were  disposed  in 
niches  around  the  magnificent  apartment  in  which  the  guests 
were  assembled;  and  as  the  earl  pointed  them  out,  and  illus- 
trated each  from  the  beautiful  anecdotes  and  golden  allusions 
of  antiquity,  he  felt  that  he  was  affording  to  Aram  a  gratifica- 
tion he  could  never  have  experienced  before,  and  in  the  ex- 
pression of  which  the  grace  and  copiousness  of  his  learning 
would  find  vent.  Nor  was  he  disappointed.  The  cheek, 
which  till  then  had  retained  its  steady  paleness,  now  caught 
the  glow  of  enthusiasm ;  and  m  a  few  moments  there  was  not 
a  person  in  the  group  who  did  not  feel,  and  cheerfully  feel, 
the  superiority  of  the  one  who,  in  birth  and  fortune,  was  im- 
measurably the  lowest  of  all. 

The  English  aristocracy,  whatever  be  the  faults  of  their  edu- 
cation, have  at  least  the  merit  of  being  alive  to  the  possession, 
and  easily  warmed  to  the  possessor,  of  classical  attainments, 
—  perhaps  too  nuich  so ;  for  they  are  thus  apt  to  judge  all  tal- 
ent by  a  classical  standard,  and  all  theory  by  classical  experi- 
ence. Without  —  save  in  very  rare  instances  —  the  right  to 
boast  of  any  deep  learning,  they  are  far  more  susceptible  than 
the  nobility  of  any  other  nation  to  the  spirltum  Cam(vnce. 
They  are  easily  and  willingly  charmed  back  to  the  studies 


EUGENE   ARAM.  131 

which,  if  not  eagerly  pursued  in  their  youth,  are  still  entwined 
with  all  their  youth's  brightest  recollections,  the  schoolboy's 
prize,  and  the  master's  praise,  the  first  ambition,  and  its  first 
reward.  A  felicitous  quotation,  a  delicate  allusion,  are  never 
lost  upon  their  ear;  and  the  veneration  which  at  Eton  they 
bore  to  the  best  verse-maker  in  the  school,  tinctures  their 
judgment  of  others  throughout  life,  mixing  I  know  not  what, 
both  of  liking  and  esteem,  with  their  admiration  of  one  who 
uses  his  classical  weapons  with  a  scholar's  dexterity,  not  a 
pedant's  inaptitude :  for  such  a  one  there  is  a  sort  of  agreeable 
confusion  in  their  respect;  they  are  inclined,  unconsciovisly, 
to  believe  that  he  must  necessarily  be  a  high  gentleman, —  ay, 
and  something  of  a  good  fellow  into  the  bargain. 

It  happened,  then,  that  Aram  could  not  have  dwelt  upon  a 
theme  more  likely  to  arrest  the  spontaneous  interest  of  those 
with  whom  he  now  conversed, —  men  themselves  of  more  cul- 
tivated minds  than  usual,  and  more  capable  than  most  (from 
that  acute  perception  of  real  talent  which  is  produced  by  ha- 
bitual political  warfare)  of  appreciating  not  only  his  endow- 
ments, but  his  facility  in  applying  them. 

"You  are  right,  my  lord,"  said  Sir ,  the  whipper-in  of 

the party,  taking  the  earl  aside ;  "  he  would  be  an  in- 
estimable pamphleteer." 

"Could  you  get  him  to  write  us  a  sketch  of  the  state  of 
parties,  —  luminous,  eloquent  ?  "  whispered  a  lord  of  the 
bed-chamber. 

The  earl  answered  by  a  bon  mot,  and  turned  to  a  bust  of 
Caracalla. 

The  hours  at  that  time  were  (in  the  covintry,  at  least)  not 
late,  and  the  earl  was  one  of  the  first  introducers  of  the  pol- 
ished fashion  of  France  by  which  we  testify  a  preference  of 
the  society  of  the  women  to  that  of  our  own  sex;  so  that  in 
leaving  the  dining-room,  it  was  not  so  late  but  that  the  greater 
part  of  the  guests  walked  out  upon  the  terrace  and  admired  the 
expanse  of  country  which  it  overlooked,  and  along  which  the 
thin  veil  of  the  twilight  began  now  to  hover. 

Having  safely  deposited  his  royal  guest  at  a  whist-table, 
and  thus  left  himself  a  free  agent,  the  earl,  inviting  Aram  to 


132  EUGENE  ARAM. 

join  him,  sauntered  among  the  loiterers  on  the  terrace  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  descended  a  broad  flight  of  steps  which 
brought  them  into  a  more  shaded  and  retired  walk,  on  either 
side  of  which  rows  of  orange-trees  gave  forth  their  fragrance, 
while,  to  the  right,  sudden  and  numerous  vistas  were  cut 
amidst  the  more  regular  and  dense  foliage,  affording  glimpses, 
now  of  some  rustic  statue,  now  of  some  lonely  temple,  now  of 
some  quaint  fountain,  on  the  play  of  whose  waters  the  first 
stars  had  begun  to  tremble. 

It  was  one  of  those  magnificent  gardens,  modelled  from  the 
stately  glories  of  Versailles,  which  it  is  now  the  mode  to  de- 
cry, but  which  breathe  so  unequivocally  of  the  palace.  I 
grant  that  they  deck  Nature  with  somewhat  too  prolix  a  grace ; 
but  is  Beauty  always  best  seen  en  deshabille?  And  with  what 
associations  of  the  brightest  traditions  connected  with  Nature 
they  link  her  more  luxuriant  loveliness!  Must  we  breathe 
only  the  malaria  of  Rome  to  be  capable  of  feeling  the  interest 
attached  to  the  fountain  or  the  statue? 

"I  am  glad,"  said  the  earl,  "that  you  admired  my  bust  of 
Cicero, —  it  is  from  an  original  very  lately  discovered.  What 
grandeur  in  the  brow;  what  energy  in  the  mouth  and  down- 
ward bend  of  the  head!  It  is  pleasant  even  to  imagine  we 
gaze  upon  the  likeness  of  so  bright  a  spirit.  And  confess,  at 
least  of  Cicero,  that  in  reading  the  aspirations  and  outpourings 
of  his  mind  you  have  felt  your  apathy  to  fame  melting  away, 
you  have  shared  the  desire  to  live  in  the  future  age, — '  the 
longing  after  immortality  ' !  " 

"Was  it  not  that  longing,"  replied  Aram,  "which  gave  to 
the  character  of  Cicero  its  poorest  and  most  frivolous  infirm- 
ity? Has  it  not  made  him,  glorious  as  he  is  despite  of  it,  a 
by-word  in  the  mouth  of  every  schoolboy  ?  Whenever  you 
mention  his  genius,  do  you  not  hear  an  appendix  on  his 
vanity  ?  " 

"Yet  without  that  vanity,  that  desire  for  a  name  with  ])os- 
terity,  would  he  have  been  equally  great,  would  he  equally 
have  cultivated  his  genius  ?  " 

"Probably,  my  lord,  he  would  not  have  equally  cultivated 
his  genius,  but  in  reality  he  might  have  been  equally  great. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  133 

A  man  often  injures  his  mind  by  the  means  that  increase  his 
genius.  You  think  this,  my  lord,  a  paradox;  but  examine 
it.  How  many  men  of  genius  have  been  but  ordinary  men, 
take  them  from  the  particular  objects  in  which  they  shine! 
Why  is  this,  but  that  in  cultivating  one  branch  of  intellect 
they  neglect  the  rest  ?  Nay,  the  very  torpor  of  the  reasoning 
faculty  has  often  kindled  tlie  imaginative.  Lucretius  is  said 
to  have  composed  his  sublime  poem  under  the  influence  of  a 
delirium.  The  susceptibilities  that  we  create  or  refine  by  the 
pursuit  of  one  object  weaken  our  general  reason ;  and  I  may 
compare,  with  some  justice,  the  powers  of  the  mind  to  the  fac- 
ulties of  the  body,  in  which  squinting  is  occasioned  by  an  in- 
equality of  strength  in  the  eyes,  and  discordance  of  voice  by 
the  same  inequality  in  the  ears." 

"I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  the  earl;  "yet  I  own  I  will- 
ingly forgive  Cicero  for  his  vanity,  if  it  contributed  to  the 
production  of  his  orations  and  his  essays.  And  he  is  a  greater 
man,  even  with  his  vanity  unconquered,  than  if  he  had  con- 
quered his  foible,  and,  in  doing  so,  taken  away  the  incitements 
to  his  genius." 

"A  greater  man  in  the  world's  eye,  my  lord,  but  scarcely 
in  reality.  Had  Homer  written  his  Iliad  and  then  burned  it, 
would  his  genius  have  been  less  ?  The  world  would  have 
known  nothing  of  him ;  but  would  he  have  been  a  less  extra- 
ordinary man  on  that  account  ?  We  are  too  apt>  my  lord,  to 
confound  greatness  and  fame. 

"There  is  one  circumstance,"  added  Aram,  after  a  pause, 
"that  should  diminish  our  respect  for  renown.  Errors  of  life, 
as  well  as  foibles  of  character,  are  often  the  real  enhancers 
of  celebrity.  Without  his  errors,  I  doubt  whether  Henri 
Quatre  would  have  become  the  idol  of  a  people.  How  many 
Whartons  has  the  world  known,  who,  deprived  of  their  frail- 
ties, had  been  inglorious!  The  light  that  you  so  admire 
reaches  you  only  through  the  distance  of  time,  on  account 
of  the  angles  and  unevenness  of  the  body  whence  it  ema- 
nates. Were  the  surface  of  the  moon  smooth,  it  would  be 
invisible." 

"I  admire  your  illustrations/'  said  the  earl,  "but  I  reluc- 


134  EUGENE  ARAM. 

tantly  submit  to  your  reasonings.  You  would  then  neglect 
your  powers,  lest  they  should  lead  you  into  errors  ?  " 

"Pardon  me,  my  lord;  it  is  because  I  think  all  the  powers 
should  be  cultivated,  that  I  quarrel  with  the  exclusive  culti- 
vation of  one.  And  it  is  only  because  I  would  strengthen  the 
whole  mind  that  I  dissent  from  the  reasonings  of  those  who 
tell  you  to  consult  your  genius." 

"  But  your  genius  may  serve  mankind  more  than  this  general 
cultivation  of  intellect  ?  " 

"My  lord,"  replied  Aram,  with  a  mournful  cloud  upon  his 
countenance,  "  that  argument  may  have  weight  with  those  who 
think  mankind  can  be  effectually  served,  though  they  may  be 
often  dazzled,  by  the  labors  of  an  individual.  But,  indeed, 
this  perpetual  talk  of  *  mankind  '  signifies  nothing;  each  of  us 
consults  his  proper  happiness,  and  we  consider  him  a  madman 
who  ruins  his  own  peace  of  mind  by  an  everlasting  fretfulness 
of  philanthropy." 

This  was  a  doctrine  that  half  pleased,  half  displeased  the 
earl:  it  shadowed  forth  the  most  dangerous  notions  which 
Aram  entertained. 

"  Well,  well, "  said  the  noble  host,  as,  after  a  short  contest 
on  the  ground  of  his  guest's  last  remark,  they  left  off  where 
they  began,  "  let  us  drop  these  general  discussions :  I  have  a 
particular  proposition  to  unfold.  We  have,  I  trust,  Mr. 
Aram,  seen  enough  of  each  other  to  feel  that  we  can  lay  a 
sure  foundation  for  mutual  esteem.  For  my  part,  I  own 
frankly  that  I  have  never  met  with  one  who  has  inspired  me 
with  a  sincerer  admiration.  I  am  desirous  that  your  talents 
and  great  learning  should  be  known  in  the  widest  sphere. 
You  may  despise  fame,  but  you  must  permit  your  friends  the 
weakness  to  wish  you  justice,  and  themselves  triumph.  You 
know  my  post  in  the  present  Administration.  The  place  of 
my  secretary  is  one  of  great  trust,  some  influence,  and  fair 
emolument;  I  offer  it  to  you.  Accept  it,  and  you  will  confer 
upon  me  an  honor  and  an  obligation.  You  will  have  your  own 
separate  house  or  apartments  in  mine,  solely  appropriated  to 
your  use;  your  privacy  will  never  be  disturbed.  Every  ar- 
rangement shall   be  made  for  yourself  and  your  bride  that 


EUGENE   ARAM.  135 

either  of  you  can  suggest.  Leisure  for  your  own  pursuits  you 
will  have,  too,  in  abundance;  there  are  others  who  will  per- 
form all  that  is  toilsome  in  the  mere  details  of  your  office. 
In  London  you  will  see  around  you  the  most  eminent  living 
men  of  all  nations  and  in  all  pursuits.  If  you  contract  (which, 
believe  me,  is  possible, —  it  is  a  tempting  game!)  any  inclina- 
tion towards  public  life,  you  will  have  the  most  brilliant 
opportunities  afforded  you,  and  I  foretell  you  the  most 
signal  success.  Stay  yet  one  moment:  for  this  you  will 
owe  me  no  thanks.  Were  I  not  sensible  that  I  consult  my 
own  interests  in  this  proposal,  I  should  be  courtier  enough  to 
suppress  it." 

"My  lord,'  said  Aram,  in  a  voice  which,  in  spite  of  its  calm- 
ness, betrayed  that  he  was  affected,  "  it  seldom  happens  to  a 
man  of  my  secluded  habits  and  lowly  pursuits  to  have  the 
philosophy  he  affects  put  to  so  severe  a  trial.  I  am  grateful 
to  you,  deeply  grateful,  for  an  offer  so  munificent,  so  unde- 
served; I  am  yet  more  grateful  that  it  allows  me  to  sound  the 
strength  of  my  own  heart,  and  to  find  that  I  did  not  too  highly 
rate  it.  Look,  my  lord,  from  the  spot  where  we  now  stand;" 
the  moon  had  risen,  and  they  had  now  returned  to  the  terrace ; 
"  in  the  vale  below,  and  far  among  those  trees,  lies  my  home. 
More  than  two  years  ago  I  came  thither  to  fix  the  resting- 
place  of  a  sad  and  troubled  spirit.  There  have  I  centred  all 
my  wishes  and  my  hopes;  and  there  may  I  breathe  my  last! 
My  lord,  you  will  not  think  me  ungrateful  that  my  choice  is 
made,  and  you  will  not  blame  my  motive,  though  you  may 
despise  my  wisdom." 

"But,"  said  the  earl,  astonished,  "you  cannot  foresee  all 
the  advantages  you  would  renounce  ?  At  your  age,  with  your 
intellect,  to  choose  the  living  sepulchre  of  a  hermitage!  It 
was  wise  to  reconcile  yourself  to  it,  but  it  is  not  wise  to  i^refer 
it!  Nay,  nay,  consider,  pause;  I  am  in  no  haste  for  your  de- 
cision. And  what  advantages  have  you  in  your  retreat  that 
you  will  not  possess  in  a  greater  degree  with  me  ?  Quiet  ?  — 
I  pledge  it  to  you  under  my  roof.  Solitude  ?  —  you  shall  have 
it  at  your  will.  Books  ?  —  what  are  those  which  you,  which 
any  individual  may  possess,  to  the   public   institutions,  the 


136  EUGENE   ARAM. 

magnificent  collections,  of  the  metropolis  ?  What  else  is  it 
you  enjoy  yonder,  and  cannot  enjoy  with  me  ?  " 

"  Liberty !  "  said  Aram,  energetically.  "  Liberty,  the  wild 
sense  of  independence!  Could  I  exchange  the  lonely  stars 
and  the  free  air  for  the  poor  lights  and  feverish  atmosphere 
of  worldly  life  ?  Could  I  surrender  my  mood,  with  its  thou- 
sand eccentricities  and  humors,  its  cloud  and  shadow,  to  the 
eyes  of  strangers,  or  veil  it  from  their  gaze  by  the  irksome- 
ness  of  an  eternal  hypocrisy  ?  No,  my  lord ;  I  am  too  old  to 
turn  disciple  to  the  world.  You  promise  me  solitude  and 
quiet.  What  charm  would  they  have  for  me  if  I  felt  they 
were  held  from  the  generosity  of  another  ?  The  attraction  of 
solitude  is  only  in  its  independence.  You  oft'er  me  the  circle, 
but  not  the  magic  which  made  it  holy.  Books !  They,  years 
since,  would  have  tempted  me;  but  those  whose  wisdom  I 
have  already  drained,  have  taught  me  now  almost  enough: 
and  the  two  books  whose  interest  can  never  be  exhausted, — • 
Nature  and  my  own  heart, —  will  suffice  for  the  rest  of  life. 
My  lord,  I  require  no  time  for  consideration." 

"And  you  positively  refuse  me  ?" 

"Gratefully  refuse  you." 

The  earl  peevishly  walked  away  for  one  moment;  but  it  was 
not  in  his  nature  to  lose  himself  for  more. 

"Mr.  Aram,"  said  he,  frankly,  and  holding  out  his  hand, 
"  you  have  chosen  nobly,  if  not  wisely ;  and  though  I  cannot 
forgive  you  for  depriving  me  of  such  a  companion,  I  thank 
you  for  teaching  me  such  a  lesson.  Henceforth  I  Vv^ill  believe 
that  philosophy  may  exist  in  practice,  and  that  a  conteimpt 
for  wealth  and  for  honors  is  not  the  mere  profession  of  dis- 
content. This  is  the  first  time,  in  a  various  and  experienced 
life,  that  I  have  found  a  man  sincerely  deaf  to  the  temptations 
of  the  world, — and  that  man  of  such  endowments!  If  ever 
you  see  cause  to  alter  a  theory  that  I  still  think  erroneous, 
though  lofty,  remember  me ;  and  at  all  times  and  on  all  occa- 
sions," he  added,  with  a  smile,  "when  a  friend  becomes  a  ne- 
cessary evil,  call  to  mind  our  starlight  walk  on  the  castle 
terrace." 

Aram  did  not  mention  to  Lester,   or  even  Madeline,   the 


EUGENE  ARAM.  137 

above  conversation.  The  whole  of  the  next  day  he  fihut  him- 
self up  at  home ;  and  when  he  again  appeared  at  the  manor- 
house  he  heard,  with  evident  satisfaction,  that  the  earl  had 
been  suddenly  summoned  on  state  affairs  to  London. 

There  was  an  unaccountable  soreness  in  Aram's  mind  which 
made  him  feel  a  resentment,  a  suspicion,  against  all  who  sought 
to  lure  him  from  his  retreat.  "  Thank  Heaven !  "  thought  he, 
when  he  heard  of  the  earl's  departure,  "we  shall  not  meet 
for  another  year ! "     He  was  mistaken.     Another  year  ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN  WHICH  THE  STORY  RETURNS  TO  WALTER  AND  THE  CORPO- 
RAL.  THE  RENCONTRE  WITH  A  STRANGER,  AND  HOW  THE 

STRANGER  PROVES  TO  BE  NOT  ALTOGETHER  A  STRANGER. 

Being  got  out  of  town  in  the  road  to  Penaflor,  master  of  my  own  action 
and  forty  good  ducats,  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  give  my  mule  her  head  and 
to  go  at  what  pace  she  pleased. 

I  left  them  in  the  inn  and  continued  my  journey ;  I  was  hardly  got  half  a 
mile  farther  when  I  met  a  cavalier  very  genteel,  etc.  —  GH  Bias. 

It  was  broad  and  sunny  noon  on  the  second  day  of  their 
journey  as  Walter  Lester  and  the  valorous  attendant  with 
whom  it  had  pleased  Fate  to  endow  him  rode  slowly  into  a 
small  town  in  which  the  corporal,  in  his  own  heart,  had  re- 
solved to  bait  his  Roman-nosed  horse  and  refresh  himself. 
Two  comely  inns  had  the  younger  traveller  of  the  two  already 
passed  with  an  indifferent  air,  as  if  neither  bait  nor  refresh- 
ment made  any  part  of  the  necessary  concerns  of  this  habita- 
ble world.  And  in  passing  each  of  the  said  hostelries,  the 
Roman-nosed  horse  had  uttered  a  snort  of  indignant  surprise, 
and  the  worthy  corporal  had  responded  to  the  quadrupedal 
remonstrance  by  a  loud  "  hem ! "  It  seemed,  however,  that 
Walter  heard  neither  of  the  above  significant  admonitions; 
and  now  the  town  was  nearly  passed,  and  a  steep  hill,  that 


138  EUGENE  ARAM. 

seemed  Tvinding  away  into  eternity,  already  presented  itself 
to  the  rue.ful  gaze  of  the  corporal. 

"The  boy's  clean  mad!"  grunted  Bunting  to  himself. 
"Must  do  my  duty  to  him,  —  give  him  a  hint." 

Pursuant  to  this  notable  and  conscientious  determination. 
Bunting  jogged  his  horse  into  a  trot;  and  coming  alongside  of 
Walter,  put  his  hand  to  his  hat  and  said, — 

"Weather  warm,  your  honor;  horses  knocked  up;  next 
town  as  far  as  hell!     Halt  a  bit  here,  augh!  " 

"Ha!  that  is  very  true.  Bunting;  I  had  quite  forgotten  the 
length  of  our  journey.  But  see,  there  is  a  sign-post  yonder; 
we  will  take  advantage  of  it." 

"Augh!  and  your  honor  's  right, —  fit  for  the  Forty-second," 
said  the  corporal,  falling  back;  and  in  a  few  moments  he  and 
his  charger  found  themselves,  to  their  mutual  delight,  enter- 
ing the  yard  of  a  small  but  comfortable -looking  inn. 

The  host,  a  man  of  a  capacious  stomach  and  a  rosy  cheek, — 
in  short,  a  host  whom  your  heart  warms  to  see, —  stepped 
forth  immediately,  held  the  stirrup  for  the  young  squire  (for 
the  corporal's  movements  were  too  stately  to  be  rapid),  and 
ushered  him,  with  a  bow,  a  smile,  and  a  flourish  of  his  nap- 
kin, into  one  of  those  little  quaint  rooms,  with  cupboards 
bright  with  high  glasses  and  old  china,  that  it  pleases  us  still 
to  find  extant  in  the  old-fashioned  inns  in  our  remoter  roads 
and  less  Londonized  districts. 

Mine  host  was  an  honest  fellow  and  not  above  his  profes- 
sion; he  stirred  the  fire,  dusted  the  table,  brought  the  bill  of 
fare  and  a  newspaper  seven  days  old,  and  then  bustled  away 
to  order  the  dinner  and  chat  with  the  corporal.  That  accom- 
plished hero  had  already  thrown  the  stables  into  commotion ; 
and  frightening  the  two  hostlers  from  their  attendance  on  the 
steeds  of  more  peaceable  men,  had  set  them  both  at  leading 
his  own  horse  and  his  master's  to  and  fro  the  yard,  to  be 
cooled  into  comfort  and  appetite. 

He  was  now  busy  in  the  kitchen,  where  he  had  seized  the 
reins  of  government,  sent  the  scullion  to  see  if  the  hens  had 
laid  any  fresh  eggs,  and  drawn  upon  himself  the  objurgations 
of  a  very  thin  cook  with  a  squint. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  139 

"Tell  you,  ma'am,  you  are  wrong,  quite  wrong;  seen  the 
world,  old  soldier,  and  know  how  to  fry  eggs  better  than  any 
she  in  the  three  kingdoms.  Hold  jaw ;  mind  your  own  busi- 
ness.    Where  's  the  frying-pan  ?     Baugh!  " 

So  completely  did  the  corporal  feel  himself  in  his  element 
while  he  was  putting  everybody  else  out  of  the  way,  and  so 
comfortable  did  he  find  his  new  quarters,  that  he  resolved  that 
the  "bait"  should  be  at  all  events  prolonged  until  his  good 
cheer  had  been  deliberately  digested  and  his  customary  pipe 
duly  enjoyed. 

Accordingly,  —  but  not  till  Walter  had  dined;  for  our  man 
of  the  world  knew  that  it  is  the  tendency  of  that  meal  to 
abate  our  activity,  while  it  increases  our  good-humor,  —  the 
corporal  presented  himself  to  his  master,  with  a  grave 
countenance. 

"  Greatly  vexed,  your  honor, —  who  'd  have  thought  it  ?  But 
those  large  animals  are  bad  on  long  march." 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter  now.  Bunting  ?  " 

"Only,  sir,  that  the  brown  horse  is  so  done  up  that  I  think 
it  would  be  as  much  as  life  's  worth  to  go  any  farther  for  sev- 
eral hours." 

"Very  well;  and  if  I  propose  staying  here  till  the  evening? 
We  have  ridden  far,  and  are  in  no  great  hurry." 

"To  be  sure  not, —  sure  and  certain  not,"  cried  the  corporal. 
"Ah,  master,  you  know  how  to  command,  I  see!  Nothing 
like  discretion,  —  discretion,  sir,  is  a  jewel.  Sir,  it  is  more 
than  a  jewel, —  it 's  a  pair  of  stirrups !  " 

"A  what,  Bunting?" 

"Pair  of  stirrups,  your  honor.  Stirrups  help  us  to  get  on, 
so  does  discretion;  to  get  off,  ditto  discretion.  Men  without 
stirrups  look  fine,  ride  bold,  tire  soon ;  men  without  discretion 
cut  dash,  but  knock  up  all  of  a  crack.  Stirrups  —  But  what 
signifies  ?  Could  say  much  more,  your  honor,  but  don't  love 
chatter." 

"Your  simile  is  ingenious  enough,  if  not  poetical,"  said 
Walter ;  "  but  it  does  not  hold  good  to  the  last.  When  a  man 
falls,  his  discretion  should  preserve  him;  but  he  is  often 
dragged  in  the  mud  by  his  stirrups." 


140  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"Beg  pardon,  you're  wrong,"  quoth  the  corporal,  nothing 
taken  by  surprise;  "spoke  of  the  newfangled  stirrups  that 
open,  crank,  when  we  fall,  and  let  us  out  of  the  scrape."  ' 

Satisfied  with  this  repartee,  the  corporal  now  (like  an  ex- 
perienced jester)  withdrew  to  leave  its  full  effect  on  the  admi- 
ration of  his  master.  A  little  before  sunset  the  two  travellers 
renewed  their  journey. 

"I  have  loaded  the  pistols,  sir,"'  said  the  corporal,  pointing 
to  the  holsters  on  Walter's  saddle.  "  It  is  eighteen  miles  off 
to  the  next  town,  —  will  be  dark  long  before  we  get  there," 

"You  did  very  right.  Bunting;  though  I  suppose  there  is  not 
much  danger  to  be  apprehended  from  the  gentlemen  of  the 
highway." 

"Why,  the  landlord  do  say  the  revarse,  your  honor, — been 
many  robberies  in  these  here  parts." 

"Well,  we  are  fairly  mounted,  and  you  are  a  formidable- 
looking  fellow.  Bunting." 

"Oh!  your  honor,"  quoth  the  corporal,  turning  his  head 
stiffly  away,  with  a  modest  simper,  "you  makes  me  blush, — 
though,  indeed,  bating  that  I  have  the  military  air,  and  am 
more  in  the  prime  of  life,  your  honor  is  wellnigh  as  awkward 
a  gentleman  as  myself  to  come  across." 

"Much  obliged  for  the  compliment!  "  said  Walter,  pushing 
his  horse  a  little  forward.  The  corporal  took  the  hint  and 
fell  back. 

It  was  now  that  beautiful  hour  of  twilight  when  lovers 
grow  especially  tender.  The  young  traveller  every  instant 
threw  his  dark  eyes  upward,  and  thought  —  not  of  Madeline, 
but  her  sister.  The  corporal  himself  grew  pensive,  and  in  a 
few  moments  his  whole  soul  was  absorbed  in  contemplating 
the  forlorn  state  of  the  abandoned  Jacobina. 

In  this  melancholy  and  silent  mood  they  proceeded  onward 
till  the  shades  began  to  deepen;  and  by  the  light  of  the  first 
stars  Walter  beheld  a  small,  spare  gentleman  riding  before 
him  on  an  ambling  nag  with  cropped  ears  and  mane.  The 
rider,  as  he  now  came  up  to  him,  seemed  to  have  passed  the 

^  Of  course  the  corporal  does  not  speak  of  the  patent  stirrup;  that  would 
be  an  anachronism. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  141 

grand  climacteric,  but  looked  hale  and  vigorous;  and  there 
was  a  certain  air  of  staid  and  sober  aristocracy  about  him 
which  involuntarily  begat  your  respect. 

He  looked  hard  at  Walter  as  the  latter  approached,  and  still 
more  hard  at  the  corporal.  He  seemed  satisfied  with  the 
survey. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  slightly  touching  his  hat  to  Walter,  and 
with  an  agreeable  though  rather  sharp  intonation  of  voice,  "  I 
am  very  glad  to  see  a  gentleman  of  your  appearance  travelling 
my  road.  Might  I  request  the  honor  of  being  allowed  to  join 
you  so  far  as  you  go  ?  To  say  the  truth,  I  am  a  little  afraid 
of  encountering  those  industrious  gentlemen  who  have  been 
lately  somewhat  notorious  in  these  parts ;  and  it  may  be  better 
for  all  of  us  to  ride  in  as  strong  a  party  as  possible." 

"Sir,"  replied  Walter,  eying  in  his  turn  the  speaker,  and 
in  his  turn  also  feeling  satisfied  with  the  scrutiny,   "I  am 

going  to  ,  where  I  shall   pass  the  night  on  my  way  to 

town,  and  shall  be  very  happy  in  your  company." 

The  corporal  uttered  a  loud  "  hem !  "  That  penetrating  man 
of  the  world  was  not  too  well  pleased  with  the  advances  of  a 
stranger. 

"  What  fools  them  boys  be !  "  thought  he,  very  discon- 
tentedly. "Howsomever,  the  man  does  seem  like  a  decent 
country  gentleman,  and  we  are  two  to  one ;  besides,  he  's  old, 
little,  and,  augh,  baugh,  I  dare  say  we  are  safe  enough  for  all 
that  he  can  do." 

The  stranger  possessed  a  polished  and  well-bred  demeanor, 
he  talked  freely  and  copiously,  and  his  conversation  was  that 
of  a  shrewd  and  cultivated  man.  He  informed  Walter  that 
not  only  the  roads  had  been  infested  by  those  more  daring 
riders  common  at  that  day,  and  to  whose  merits  we  ourselves 
have  endeavored  to  do  justice  in  a  former  work  of  blessed 
memory,  ■  but  that  several  houses  had  been  lately  attempted, 
and  two  absolutely  plundered. 

"For  myself,"  he  added,  "I  have  no  money  to  signify  about 
my  person;  my  watch  is  only  valuable  to  me  for  the  time  it 
has  been  in  my  possession;  and  if  the  rogues  robbed  one  civ- 
illy, I  should  not  so  much  mind  encountering  them-  but  they 


142  EUGENE  ARAM. 

are  a  desperate  set,  and  use  violence  when  there  is  nothing  to 
be  got  by  it.     Have  you  travelled  far  to-day,  sir  ?  " 

"Some  six  or  seven  and  twenty  miles,"  replied  Walter.  "I 
am  proceeding  to  London,  and  not  willing  to  distress  my  horses 
by  too  rapid  a  journey." 

"Very  right,  very  good;  and  horses,  sir,  are  not  now  what 
they  used  to  be  when  I  was  a  young  man.  Ah,  what  wagers 
I  used  to  win  then!  Horses  galloped,  sir,  when  I  was  twenty; 
they  trotted  when  I  was  thirty -five :  but  they  only  amble  now. 
Sir,  if  it  does  not  tax  your  patience  too  severely,  let  us  give 
our  nags  some  hay  and  water  at  the  half-way  house  yonder." 

Walter  assented.  They  stopped  at  a  little  solitary  inn  by 
the  side  of  the  road,  and  the  host  came  out  with  great  obse- 
quiousness when  he  heard  the  voice  of  Walter's  companion. 

"Ah,  Sir  Peter!"  said  he.  "And  how  be'st  your  honor? 
Fine  uight,  Sir  Peter;  hope  you'll  get  home  safe,  Sir 
Peter." 

"Safe,  ay!  indeed,  Jock,  I  hope  so  too.  Has  all  been 
quiet  here  this  last  night  or  two  ? " 

"Whish,  sir!"  whispered  my  host,  jerking  his  thumb  back 
towards  the  house;  "there  be  two  ugly  customers  within  I 
does  not  know:  they  have  got  famous  good  horses,  and  are 
drinking  hard.  I  can't  say  as  I  knows  anything  agen 'em, 
but  I  think  your  honors  had  better  be  jogging." 

"Aha!  thank  ye,  Jock,  thank  ye.  Never  mind  the  hay 
now,"  said  Sir  Peter,  pulling  away  the  reluctant  mouth  of  his 
nag;  and  turning  to  Walter,  "Come,  sir,  let  us  move  on. 
Why,  zounds !  where  is  that  servant  of  yours  ?  " 

Walter  now  perceived,  with  great  vexation,  that  the  corpo- 
ral had  disappeared  within  the  alehouse ;  and  looking  through 
the  casement,  on  which  the  ruddy  light  of  the  fire  played 
cheerily,  he  saw  the  man  of  the  world  lifting  a  little  measure 
of  "the  pure  creature"  to  his  lips;  and  close  by  the  hearth,  at 
a  small  round  table,  covered  with  glasses,  pipes,  etc.,  he  be- 
held two  men  eying  the  tall  corporal  very  wistfully,  and  of  no 
prepossessing  appearance  themselves.  One,  indeed,  as  the 
fire  played  full  on  his  countenance,  was  a  person  of  singularly 
rugged  and  sinister  features ;  and  this  man,  he  now  remarked, 


EUGENE   ARAM.  143 

was  addressing  himself  with  a  grim  smile  to  the  corporal, 
who,  setting  down  his  little  "noggin,"  regarded  him  with  a 
stare  which  appeared  to  Walter  to  denote  recognition.  This 
survey  was  the  operation  of  a  moment,  for  Sir  Peter  took  it 
upon  himself  to  despatch  the  landlord  into  the  house  to  order 
forth  the  unseasonable  carouser,  and  presently  the  corporal 
stalked  out;  and  having  solemnly  remounted,  the  whole  trio 
set  onwards  in  a  brisk  trot.  As  soon  as  they  were  without 
sight  of  the  alehouse,  the  corporal  brought  the  aquiline  profile 
of  his  gaunt  steed  on  a  level  with  his  master's  horse. 

"  Augh,  sir !  "  said  he,  with  more  than  his  usual  energy  of 
utterance,  "I  see'd  him!  " 

"Him!  whom?" 

"Man  with  ugly  face  what  drank  at  Peter  Dealtry's  and 
went  to  Master  Aram's.  Knew  him  in  a  crack;  sure  he  's  a 
Tartar!" 

"What!  does  your  servant  recognize  one  of  those  suspicious 
fellows  whom  Jock  warned  us  against  ? "  cried  Sir  Peter, 
pricking  up  his  ears. 

"So  it  seems,  sir,"  said  Walter;  "he  saw  him  once  before, 
many  miles  hence.  But  I  fancy  he  knows  nothing  really  to 
his  prejudice." 

"  Augh !  "  cried  the  corporal ;  "  he  's  d — d  ugly,  anyhow !  " 

"That's  a  tall  fellow  of  yours,"  said  Sir  Peter,  jerking  up 
his  chin  with  that  peculiar  motion  common  to  the  brief  in 
stature  when  they  are  covetous  of  elongation.  "He  looks 
military:  has  he  been  in  the  army?  Ay,  I  thought  so,  —  one 
of  the  King  of  Prussia's  grenadiers,  I  suppose.  Faith,  I  hear 
hoofs  behind!  " 

"Hem!"  cried  the  corporal,  again  coming  alongside  of  his 
master.  "Beg  pardon,  sir;  served  in  the  Forty-second;  noth- 
ing like  regular  line;  stragglers  always  cut  off;  had  rather 
not  straggle  just  now ;  enemy  behind !  " 

Walter  looked  back  and  saw  two  men  approaching  them  at 
a  hand-gallop.  "We  are  a  match  at  least  for  them,  sir,"  said 
he  to  his  new  acquaintance. 

"lam  devilish  glad  I  met  you,"  was  Sir  Peter's  rather 
selfish  reply. 


144  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"  'T  is  he!  't  is  the  devil!  "  grunted  the  corporal  as  the  two 
men  now  gained  their  side  and  pulled  up;  and  Walter  recog- 
nized the  faces  he  had  remarked  in  the  alehouse. 

"Your  servant,  gentlemen,"  quoth  the  uglier  of  the  two; 
"  you  ride  fast  —  " 

"And  ready,  bother,  baugh!  "  chimed  in  the  corporal,  pluck- 
ing a  gigantic  pistol  from  his  holster  without  any  further 
ceremony. 

"Glad  to  hear  it,  sir!"  said  the  hard-featured  stranger, 
nothing  dashed.     "But  I  can  tell  you  a  secret." 

"  What 's  that,  augh?  "  said  the  corporal,  cocking  his  pistol. 

"  Whoever  hurts  you,  friend,  cheats  the  gallows !  "  replied 
the  stranger,  laughing,  and  spurring  on  his  horse,  to  be  out  of 
reach  of  any  practical  answer  with  which  the  corporal  might 
favor  him.  But  Bunting  was  a  prudent  man,  and  not  apt  to 
be  choleric. 

"Bother!"  said  he,  and  dropped  his  pistol,  as  the  other 
stranger  followed  his  ill-favored  comrade. 

"  You  see  we  are  too  strong  for  them ! "  cried  Sir  Peter, 
gayly.  "Evidently  highwaymen!  How  very  fortunate  that 
I  should  have  fallen  in  with  you !  " 

A  shower  of  rain  noAv  began  to  fall.  Sir  Peter  looked 
serious.  He  halted  abruptly,  unbuckled  his  cloak,  which 
had  been  strapped  before  his  saddle,  wrapped  himself  up  in  it, 
buried  his  face  in  the  collar,  muffled  his  chin  with  a  red  hand- 
kerchief which  he  took  out  of  his  pocket,  and  then  turning  to 
Walter,  he  said  to  him,  "What!  no  cloak,  sir, —  no  wrapper 
even  ?  Upon  my  soul  I  am  very  sorry  I  have  not  another 
handkerchief  to  lend  you !  " 

"Man  of  the  world,  baugh!  "  grunted  the  corporal;  and  his 
heart  qiiite  warmed  to  the  stranger  he  had  at  first  taken  for 
a  robber. 

"And  now,  sir,"  said  Sir  Peter,  patting  his  nag  and  pulling 
up  his  cloak-collar  still  higher,  "let  us  go  gently:  there  is  no 
occasion  for  hurry.     Why  distress  our  horses  ?  " 

"Really,  sir,"  said  Walter,  smiling,  "though  I  have  a  great 
regard  for  my  horse,  I  have  some  for  myself,  and  I  should 
rather  like  to  be  out  of  this  rain  as  soon  as  possible." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  145 

*'  Oh,  ah !  you  have  no  cloak ;  I  forgot  that.  To  be  sure,  to 
be  sure;  let  us  trot  on, —  gently,  though,  gently.  Well,  sir, 
as  I  was  saying,  horses  are  not  so  swift  as  they  were.  The 
breed  is  bought  up  by  the  French!  I  remember  once  Johnny 
Courtland  and  I,  after  dining  at  my  house  till  the  champagne 
had  played  the  dancing-master  to  our  brains,  mounted  our 
horses  and  rode  twenty  miles  for  a  cool  thousand  the  winner. 
I  lost  it,  sir,  by  a  hair's-breadth;  but  I  lost  it  on  purpose:  it 
w^ould  have  half  ruined  Johnny  Courtland  to  have  paid  me, 
and  he  had  that  delicacy,  sir,  he  had  that  delicacy  that  he 
would  not  have  suffered  me  to  refuse  taking  his  money;  so 
what  could  I  do  but  lose  on  purpose  ?  You  see  I  had  no 
alternative." 

"Pray,  sir,"  said  Walter,  charmed  and  astonished  at  so  rare 
an  instance  of  the  generosity  of  human  friendships, —  "pray^ 
sir,  did  I  not  hear  you  called  Sir  Peter  by  the  landlord  of  the 
little  inn  ?  Can  it  be,  since  you  speak  so  familiarly  of 
Mr.  Courtland,  that  I  have  the  honor  to  address  Sir  Peter 
Hales  ?  " 

"Indeed,  that  is  my  name,"  replied  the  gentleman,  with 
some  surprise  in  his  voice,  "  But  I  have  never  had  the  honor 
of  seeing  you  before." 

"Perhaps  my  name  is  not  unfamiliar  to  you,"  said  Walter, 
"  And  among  my  papers  I  have  a  letter  addressed  to  you  from 
my  uncle,  Rowland  Lester." 

"  God  bless  me !  "  cried  Sir  Peter.  "  What !  Ptowy  ?  Well, 
indeed  I  am  overjoyed  to  hear  of  him.  So  you  are  his  nephew? 
Pray  tell  me  all  about  him,— a  wild,  gay,  rollicking  fellow 
still,  eh?  Always  fencing,  sa-sa!  or  playing  at  billiards,  or 
hot  in  a  steeple-chase  ?  There  Avas  not  a  jollier,  better-hu- 
mored fellow  in  the  world  than  Rowy  Lester." 

"You  forget,  Sir  Peter,"  said  Walter,  laughing  at  a  descrip- 
tion so  unlike  his  sober  and  steady  uncle,  "that  some  years 
have  passed  since  the  time  you  speak  of." 

"Ah!  and  so  there  have,"  replied  Sir  Peter.  "And  what 
does  your  uncle  say  of  me?''' 

"That  when  he  knew  you  you  were  all  generosity,  frank- 
ness, hospitality." 

10 


146  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"Humph,  humpli!"  said  Sir  Peter,  looking  extremely  dis- 
concerted, —  a  confusion  which  Walter  imputed  solely  to 
modesty.  "I  was  a  hairbrained,  foolish  fellow  then, —  quite 
a  boy,  quite  a  boy.  But  bless  me,  it  rains  sharply,  and  you 
have  no  cloak.  But  we  are  close  on  the  town  now.  An  ex- 
cellent inn  is  the  'Duke  of  Cumberland's  Head; '  you  will  have 
charming  accommodation  there." 

"What,  Sir  Peter,  you  know  this  part  of  the  country 
well?" 

"Pretty  well,  pretty  well, —  indeed  I  live  near;  that  is  to 
say,  not  very  far  from,  the  town.  This  turn,  if  you  please. 
We  separate  here.  I  have  brought  you  a  little  out  of  your 
way, —  not  above  a  mile  or  two, —  for  fear  the  robbers  should 
attack  me  if  I  was  left  alone.  I  had  quite  forgot  you  had  no 
cloak.  That 's  your  road, —  this  mine.  Aha!  so  Rowy  Lester 
is  still  alive  and  hearty  ?  The  same  excellent  wild  fellow,  no 
doubt.  Give  my  kindest  remembrance  to  him  when  you  write. 
Adieu,  sir! " 

This  latter  speech  having  been  delivered  during  a  halt,  the 
corporal  had  heard  it;  he  grinned  delightedly  as  he  touched 
his  hat  to  Sir  Peter,  who  now  trotted  off,  and  muttered  to  his 
young  master, — 

"Most  sensible  man,  that,  sir!  " 


EUGENE  ARAM.  147 


CHAPTEK  VI. 

SIB    PETER     DISPLAYED. ONE     MAN     OF     THE     WORLD     SUFFERS 

FROM     ANOTHER. THE     INCIDENT     OF     THE     BRIDLE     BEGETS 

THE  INCIDENT  OF  THE  SADDLE  ;  THE  INCIDENT  OF  THE 
SADDLE  BEGETS  THE  INCIDENT  OF  THE  WHIP;  THE  INCI- 
DENT OF  THE  WHIP  BEGETS  WHAT  THE  READER  MUST  BEAD 
TO    SEE. 

Nihil  est  aliud  magnam  quam  multa  minuta.^ —  Vetus  Auctar. 

"And  SO,"  said  Walter,  the  next  morning,  to  the  head- 
waiter,  who  was  busied  about  their  preparations  for  breakfast, 
*'  and  so  Sir  Peter  Hales,  you  say,  lives  within  a  mile  of  the 
town  ?  " 

"  Scarcely  a  mile,  sir  (black,  or  green  ?) ;  you  passed  the 
turn  to  his  house  last  night.  (Sir,  the  eggs  are  quite  fresh 
this  morning.)     This  inn  belongs  to  Sir  Peter." 

"Oh!     Does  Sir  Peter  see  much  company?" 

The  waiter  smiled. 

"  Sir  Peter  gives  very  handsome  dinners,  sir,  twice  a-yeax. 
A  most  clever  gentleman.  Sir  Peter !  They  say  he  is  the  best 
manager  of  property  in  the  whole  county.  Do  you  like  York- 
shire cake  ?    Toast  ?    Yes,  sir !  " 

"So,  so,"  said  Walter  to  himself;  "a  pretty  true  descrip- 
tion my  uncle  gave  me  of  this  gentleman!  'Ask  me  too 
often  to  dinner,  indeed!'  'offer  me  money  if  I  want  it!' 
'spend  a  month  at  his  house!'  'most  hospitable  fellow  in 
the  world! '    My  uncle  must  have  been  dreaming." 

Walter  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  men  most  prodigal  when 
they  have  nothing  but  expectations  are  often  most  thrifty 
when  they  know  the  charms  of  absolute  possession.  Besides, 
Sir  Peter  had  married  a  Scotch  lady,  and  was  blessed  with 

1  "  Nor  is  there  anything  that  hath  so  great  a  power  as  the  aggregate  of 
small  things." 


148  EUGENE  ARAM. 

eleven  children !  But  was  Sir  Peter  Hales  much  altered  ? 
Sir  Peter  Hales  was  exactly  the  same  man  in  reality  that  he 
always  had  been.  Once  he  was  selfish  in  extravagance;  he 
was  now  selfish  in  thrift.  He  had  always  pleased  himself 
n  nd  forgot  other  people :  that  was  exactly  what  he  valued  him- 
self on  doing  now.  But  the  most  absurd  thing  about  Sir  Peter 
was  that  while  he  was  forever  extracting  use  from  every  one 
else,  he  was  mightily  afraid  of  being  himself  put  to  use.  He 
was  in  Parliament,  and  noted  for  never  giving  a  frank  out  of 
his  own  family.  Yet,  withal.  Sir  Peter  Hales  was  still  an 
agreeable  fellow, —  nay,  he  was  more  liked  and  nnich  more 
esteemed  than  ever.  There  is  something  conciliatory  in  a 
saving  disposition.  But  people  put  themselves  in  a  great  pas- 
sion when  a  man  is  too  liberal  with  his  own;  it  is  an  insult 
on  their  own  prudence.  "  What  right  has  he  to  be  so  extrava- 
gant? What  an  example  to  our  servants!"  But  your  close 
neighbor  does  not  humble  you.  You  love  your  close  neighbor; 
you  respect  your  close  neighbor;  you  have  your  harmless  jest 
against  him, —  but  he  is  a  most  respectable  man. 

"A  letter,  sir,  and  a  parcel  from  Sir  Peter  Hales,"  said  the 
waiter,  entering. 

The  parcel  was  a  bulky,  angular,  awkward  packet  of  brown 
paper,  sealed  once  and  tied  with  the  smallest  possible  quantity 
of  string;  it  was  addressed  to  Mr.  James  Holwell,   Saddler, 

Street,  .     The  letter  was  to Lester,  Esq.,  and 

ran  thus,  written  in  a  very  neat,  stiff  Italian  character :  — 

D^  S^  — 

I  trust  you  had  no  difficulty  in  find^  y^  Duke  of  Cumberland's  Head ; 
it  is  an  excellent  1°. 

I  o;reatly  reg'  y'  you  are  unavoid'  oblig'd  to  go  on  to  Lond° ;  for  other- 
wise I  sh*  have  had  the  sincerest  picas*'  in  seeing  you  here  at  din""  & 
introducing  you  to  1/  Hales.  Anoth'  time  I  trust  we  may  be  more 
fortunate. 

As  you  pass  thro'  y*  lift*  town  of  ,  exactly  21  miles  hence,  on  the 

road  to  Lond°,  will  you  do  me  the  fav'  to  allow  your  serv'  to  put  the 
little  parcel  I  send  into  his  pock»  &  drop  it  as  direct*  ?  It  is  a  bridle  I 
am  forc'd  to  return.     Country  work"  are  such  bung". 

I  sh*  most  certain'  have  had  y*  hon'  to  wait  on  you  person',  but  the 


EUGENE   ARAM.  149 

rain  has  given  me  a  m"  sev«  cold.     Hope  you  have  escap'd,  —  tho',  by 
y^  by,  you  had  no  cloak  nor  wrapp'' ! 

My  kindest  regards  to  your  m"  excellent  unc*.     I  am  sure  he  's  the 
same  fine  merr^  fell"  he  always  was !     Tell  him  so  1 
D'  Sf,  yours  faith^ 

Petei4  Grindlescrew  Hales. 

P.  S.      You  know  perh=  y'  poor  Jn°  Court*,  your  uucle's  mo  intim* 

friend,  lives  in ,  the  town  in  which  your  serv'  will  drop  y^  brid*. 

He  is  much  alter'd,  poor  Jn°  I 

"Altered!  Alteration  then  seems  the  fashion  with  my 
uucle's  friends!"  thought  Walter  as  he  rang  for  the  corporal 
and  consigned  to  his  charge  the  unsightly  parcel. 

"It  is  to  be  carried  twenty-one  miles,  at  the  request  of  the 
gentleman  we  met  last  night, —  a  most  sensible  man,  Bunting!  " 

"  Augh,  waugh,  your  honor !  "  grunted  the  corporal,  thrust- 
ing the  bridle  very  discontentedly  into  his  pocket,  where  it 
annoyed  him  the  whole  journey,  by  incessantly  getting  be- 
tween his  seat  of  leather  and  his  seat  of  honor.  It  is  a  comfort 
to  the  inexperienced  when  one  man  of  the  world  smarts  from 
the  sagacity  of  another;  we  resign  ourselves  more  willingly 
to  our  fate.  Our  travellers  resumed  their  journey,  and  in  a 
few  minutes,  from  the  cause  we  have  before  assigned,  the  cor- 
poral became  thoroughly  out  of  humor. 

"Pray,  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  calling  his  attendant  to  his 
side,  "do  you  feel  sure  that  the  man  we  met  yesterday  at 
the  alehouse  is  the  same  you  saw  at  Grassdale  some  months 
ago?" 

"D — n  it!"  cried  the  corporal;  quickly,  and  clapping  his 
hand  behind. 

"How,  sir!" 

"Beg  pardon,  your  honor, —  slip  tongue;  but  this  con- 
founded parcel !  augh,  bother !  " 

"Why  don't  you  carry  it  in  your  hand  ?  " 

"'Tis  so  ungainsome,  and  be  d — d  to  it!  And  how  can  I 
hold  parcel  and  pull  in  this  beast,  which  requires  two  hands: 
his  mouth  's  as  hard  as  a  brickbat,  augh !  " 

"You  have  not  answered  my  question  yet." 


150  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"  Beg  pardon,  your  honor.  Yes,  certain  sure  the  man  's  the 
same;  phiz  not  to  be  mistaken." 

"It  is  strange,"  said  Walter,  musing,  "that  Aram  should 
know  a  man  who,  if  not  a  highwayman,  as  we  suspected,  is  at 
least  of  rugged  manner  and  disreputable  appearance.  It  is 
strange,  too,  that  Aram  always  avoided  recurring  to  the  ac- 
quaintance, though  he  confessed  it."  With  this  he  broke  into 
a  trot,  and  the  corporal  into  an  oath. 

They  arrived  by  noon  at  the  little  town  specified  by  Sir 
Peter,  and  in  their  way  to  the  inn  (for  Walter  resolved  to  rest 
there)  passed  by  the  saddler's  house.  It  so  chanced  that  Mas- 
ter Holwell  was  an  adept  in  his  craft,  and  that  a  newly  in- 
vented hunting  saddle  at  the  window  caught  Walter's  notice. 
The  artful  saddler  persuaded  the  young  traveller  to  dis- 
mount and  look  at  "the  most  convenientest  and  handsomest 
saddle  that  ever  was  seen ; "  and  the  corporal  having  lost  no 
time  in  getting  rid  of  his  encumbrance,  Walter  dismissed 
him  to  the  inn  with  the  horses,  and  after  purchasing  the 
saddle  in  exchange  for  his  own,  he  sauntered  into  the  shop  to 
look  at  a  new  snaffle.  A  gentleman's  servant  was  in  the  shop 
at  the  time,  bargaining  for  a  riding-whip;  and  the  shopboy, 
among  others,  showed  him  a  large  old-fashioned  one,  with  a 
tarnished  silver  handle.  Grooms  have  no  taste  for  antiquity, 
and  in  spite  of  the  silver  handle,  the  servant  pushed  it  aside 
with  some  contempt.  Some  jest  he  uttered  at  the  time  chanced 
to  attract  Walter's  notice  to  the  whip;  he  took  it  up  carelessly, 
and  perceived,  with  great  surprise,  that  it  bore  his  own  crest 
—  a  bittern  —  on  the  handle.  He  examined  it  now  with  at- 
tention; and  underneath  the  crest  were  the  letters  G.  L.,  his 
father's  initials. 

"  How  long  have  you  had  this  whip  ?  "  said  he  to  the  sad- 
dler, concealing  the  emotion  which  this  token  of  his  lost 
parent  naturally  excited. 

"Oh!  a  'nation  long  time,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Holwell.  "It 
is  a  queer  old  thing,  but  really  is  not  amiss,  if  the  silver  was 
scrubbed  up  a  bit  and  a  new  lash  put  on.  You  may  have  it  a 
bargain,  sir,  if  so  be  you  have  taken  a  fancy  to  it." 

"  Can  you  at  all  recollect  how  you  came  by  it  ?  "  said  Walter, 


EUGENE   ARAM.  151 

earnestly.  "The  fact  is  that  I  see  by  the  crest  and  initials 
that  it  belonged  to  a  person  whom  I  have  some  interest  in 
discovering." 

"Why,  let  me  think,"  said  the  saddler,  scratching  the  tip 
of  his  right  ear;  "  't  is  so  long  ago  sin'  I  had  it,  I  quite  forget 
how  I  came  by  it." 

"  Oh,  is  it  that  whip,  John  ?  "  said  the  wife,  who  had  been 
attracted  from  the  back  parlor  by  the  sight  of  the  handsome 
young  stranger.  "Don't  you  remember, —  it's  a  many  year 
ago, —  a  gentleman  who  passed  a  day  with  Squire  Courtland, 
when  he  first  came  to  settle  here,  called  and  left  the  whip  to 
have  a  new  thong  put  to  it  ?  But  I  fancies  he  forgot  it,  sir 
[turning  to  Walter],  for  he  never  called  for  it  again;  and  the 
squire's  people  says  as  how  he  was  gone  into  Yorkshire, —  so 
there  the  whip  's  been  ever  sin'.  I  remembers  it,  sir,  'cause 
I  kept  it  in  the  little  parlor  nearly  a  year,  to  be  in  the  way 
like." 

"Ah!  I  thinks  I  do  remember  it  now,"  said  Master  Hol- 
well.  "  I  should  think  it 's  a  matter  of  twelve  yearn  ago.  I 
suppose  I  may  sell  it  without  fear  of  the  gentleman's  claim- 
ing it  again." 

"  Not  more  than  twelve  years ! "  said  Walter,  anxiously ; 
for  it  was  some  seventeen  years  since  his  father  had  been 
last  heard  of  by  his  family. 

"Why  it  may  be  thirteen,  sir,  or  so,  more  or  less;  I  can't 
say  exactly." 

"More  likely  fourteen!  "  said  the  dame.  "It  can't  be  much 
more,  sir ;  we  have  only  been  a  married  fifteen  year  come  next 
Christmas!     But  my  old  man  here  is  ten  years  older  nor  I." 

"And  the  gentleman,  you  say,  was  at  Mr.  Courtland's?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  that  I'm  sure  of,"  replied  the  intelligent  Mrs. 
Holwell;  "they  said  he  had  come  lately  from  Ingee." 

Walter,  now  despairing  of  hearing  more,  purchased  the 
whip;  and  blessing  the  worldly  wisdom  of  Sir  Peter  Hales, 
that  had  thus  thrown  him  on  a  clew,  which,  however  slight, 
he  resolved  to  follow  up,  he  inquired  the  way  to  Squire  Court- 
land's,  and  proceeded  thither  at  once. 


152  EUGENE   ARAM. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

WALTER     VISITS     ANOTHER      OF      HIS      UNCLe's      FRIENDS. MR. 

COURTLANd's    STRANGE    COMPLAINT. WALTER   LEARNS   NEWS 

OF    HIS    FATHER    WHICH     SURPRISES     HIM, THE     CHANGE    IN 

HIS    DESTINATION. 

Gad  's  my  life  !  did  you  ever  hear  the  like  1     What  a  strange  man  is  this ! 
What  you  have  possessed  me  withal,  I  '11  discharge  it  amply. 

Ben  Jonson  :  Every  Man  in  his  Humor. 

Mr.  Courtland's  house  was  surrounded  by  a  high  wall, 
and  stood  at  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  A  little  wooden  door, 
buried  deep  within  the  wall,  seemed  the  only  entrance.  At 
this  Walter  paused;  and  after  twice  applying  to  the  bell,  a 
footman  of  a  peculiarly  grave  and  sanctimonious  appearance 
opened  the  door. 

In  reply  to  Walter's  inquiries  he  informed  him  that  Mr. 
Courtland  was  very  unwell,  and  never  saw  "company."  Wal- 
ter, however,  producing  from  his  pocket-book  the  introduc- 
tory letter  given  him  by  his  uncle,  slipped  it  into  the  servant's 
hand,  accompanied  by  half-a-crown,  and  begged  to  be  an- 
nounced as  a  gentleman  on  very  particular  business. 

"Well,  sir,  you  can  step  in,"  said  the  servant,  giving  way; 
"but  my  master  is  very  poorly,  very  poorly  indeed." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it  •  has  he  been  long  so  ?  " 

"Going  on  for  ten  years,  sir!"  replied  the  servant,  with 
great  gravity;  and  opening  the  door  of  the  house,  which  stood 
within  a  few  paces  of  the  wall,  on  a  singularly  flat  and  bare 
grass-plot,  he  showed  him  into  a  room,  and  left  him  alone. 

The  first  thing  that  struck  Walter  in  this  apartment  was  its 
remarkable  lightness.  Though  not  large,  it  had  no  less  than 
seven  windows.  Two  sides  of  the  wall  seemed  indeed  all 
window!  Nor  were  these  admittants  of  the  celestial  beam 
shaded  by  any  blind  or  curtain, — 

"The  gaudy,  babbling,  and  remorseless  day  " 

made  itself  thoroughly  at  home  in  this  airy  chamber.     Xever* 


EUGENE   ARAM.  153 

theless,  though  so  light,  it  seemed  to  Walter  anything  but 
cheerful.  The  sun  had  blistered  and  discolored  the  painting 
of  the  wainscot,  originally  of  a  pale  sea-green;  there  was- 
little  furniture  in  the  apartment:  one  table  in  the  centre, 
some  half-a-dozen  chairs,  and  a  very  small  Turkey  carpet, 
which  did  not  cover  one  tenth  part  of  the  clean,  cold,  smooth 
oak  boards,  constituted  all  the  goods  and  chattels  visible  in 
the  room.  But  what  particularly  added  effect  to  the  bareness 
of  all  within,  was  the  singular  and  laborious  bareness  of  all 
without.  From  each  of  these  seven  windows,  nothing  but  a 
forlorn  green  flat  of  some  extent  was  to  be  seen;  there  was 
neither  tree,  nor  shrub  nor  flower  in  the  whole  expanse,  al- 
though by  several  stumps  of  trees  near  the  house,  Walter  per- 
ceived that  the  place  had  not  always  been  so  destitute  of 
vegetable  life. 

While  he  was  yet  looking  upon  this  singular  baldness  of 
scene,  the  servant  re-entered  with  his  master's  compliments 
and  a  message  that  he  should  be  happy  to  see  any  relation  of 
Mr.  Lester. 

Walter  accordingly  followed  the  footman  into  an  apartment 
possessing  exactly  the  same  peculiarities  as  the  former  one; 
namely,  a  most  disproportionate  plurality  of  windows,  a  com- 
modious scantiness  of  furniture,  and  a  prospect  without  that 
seemed  as  if  the  house  had  been  built  in  the  middle  of  Salis- 
bury Plain. 

Mr.  Courtland  himself,  a  stout  man,  still  preserving  the 
rosy  hues  and  comely  features,  though  certainly  not  the  hila- 
rious expression,  which  Lester  had  attributed  to  him,  sat  in  a 
large  chair  close  by  the  centre  window,  which  was  open.  He 
rose  and  shook  Walter  by  the  hand  with  great  cordiality. 

"Sir,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you!  How  is  your  worthy 
uncle  ?  I  only  wish  he  were  with  you.  You  dine  with  me, 
of  course.  Thomas,  tell  the  cook  to  add  a  tongue  and  chicken 
to  the  roast  beef.  No,  young  gentleman,  I  will  have  no 
excuse.  Sit  down,  sit  down;  pray  come  near  the  window. 
Do  you  not  find  it  dreadfully  close,  —  not  a  breath  of  air? 
This  house  is  so  choked  up ;  don't  you  find  it  so,  eh  ?  Ah ! 
I  see,  you  can  scarcely  gasp." 


154  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"My  dear  sir,  you  are  mistaken;  I  am  rather  cold,  on  tlie 
contrary,  —  nor  did  I  ever  in  my  life  see  a  more  airy  house 
than  yours." 

"I  try  to  make  it  so,  sir,  but  I  can't  succeed.  If  you  had 
seen  what  it  was  when  I  first  bought  it,  —  a  garden  here,  sir; 
a  copse  there;  a  wilderness,  God  wot!  at  the  back;  and  a  row 
of  chestnut-trees  in  the  front !  You  may  conceive  the  conse- 
quence, sir:  I  had  not  been  long  here,  not  two  years,  before 
my  health  was  gone,  sir,  gone, —  the  d — d  vegetable  life  sucked 
it  out  of  me.  The  trees  kept  away  all  the  air;  I  was  nearly 
suffocated,  without,  at  first,  guessing  the  cause.  But  at  length, 
though  not  till  I  had  been  withering  away  for  five  years,  I 
discovered  the  origin  of  my  malady.  I  went  to  work,  sir:  I 
plucked  up  the  cursed  garden,  I  cut  down  the  infernal  chest- 
nuts, I  made  a  bowling-green  of  the  diabolical  wilderness. 
But  I  fear  it  is  too  late;  I  am  dying  by  inches, —  have  been 
dying  ever  since.  The  malaria  has  effectually  tainted  my 
constitution." 

Here  Mr.  Courtland  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  shook  his  head 
with  a  most  gloomy  expression  of  countenance. 

"Indeed,  sir,"  said  Walter,  "I  should  not,  to  look  at  you, 
imagine  that  you  suffered  under  any  complaint.  You  seem 
still  the  same  picture  of  health  that  my  uncle  describes  you 
to  have  been  when  you  knew  him  so  many  years  ago." 

"Yes,  sir,  yes, —  the  confounded  malaria  fixed  the  color  to 
my  cheeks;  the  blood  is  stagnant,  sir.  Would  to  Heaven 
I  could  see  myself  a  shade  paler!  The  blood  does  not  flow;  I 
am  like  a  pool  in  a  citizen's  garden,  with  a  willow  at  each 
corner.  But  a  truce  to  my  complaints.  You  see,  sir,  I  am  no 
hypochondriac,  as  my  fool  of  a  doctor  wants  to  persuade  me. 
A  hypochondriac  shudders  at  every  breath  of  air,  trembles 
when  a  door  is  open,  and  looks  upon  a  window  as  the  entrance 
of  death.  But  I,  sir,  never  can  have  enough  air;  thorough 
draught  or  east  wind,  it  is  all  the  same  to  me,  so  that  I  do  but 
breathe.  Is  that  like  hypochondria  ?  —  pshaw !  But  tell  me, 
young  gentleman,  about  your  uncle:  is  he  quite  well, —  stout, 
hearty  ?     Does  he  breathe  easily, —  no  oppression?  " 

"Sir,  he  enjoys  exceedingly  good  health.     He  did  please 


EUGENE   ARAM.  155 

himself  with  the  hope  that  I  should  give  him  good  tidings  of 
yourself  and  another  of  his  old  friends,  whom  I  accidentally 
saw  yesterday, —  Sir  Peter  Hales." 

"Hales!  Peter  Hales!  Ah!  a  clever  little  fellow  that. 
How  delighted  Lester's  good  heart  will  be  to  hear  that  little 
Peter  is  so  improved, —  no  longer  a  dissolute,  harum-scarum 
fellow,  throwing  away  his  money,  and  always  in  debt.  No, 
no ;  a  respectable,  steady  character,  an  excellent  manager,  an 
active  member  of  Parliament,  domestic  in  private  life.  Oh! 
a  very  worthy  man,  sir;  a  very  worthy  man!  " 

"He  seems  altered,  indeed,  sir,"  said  Walter,  who  was 
young  enough  in  the  world  to  be  surprised  at  this  eulogy, 
"but  is  still  agreeable  and  fond  of  anecdote.  He  told  me  of 
his  race  with  you  for  a  thousand  guineas." 

"Ah!  don't  talk  of  those  days,"  said  Mr.  Courtland,  shak- 
ing his  head  pensively;  "it  makes  me  melancholy.  Yes, 
Peter  ought  to  recollect  that,  for  he  has  never  paid  me  to 
this  day, — affected  to  treat  it  as  a  jest,  and  swore  he  could 
have  beat  me  if  he  would.  But  indeed  it  was  my  fault,  sir, 
—  Peter  had  not  then  a  thousand  farthings  in  the  world ;  and 
when  he  grew  rich,  he  became  a  steady  character,  and  I  did 
not  like  to  remind  him  of  our  former  follies.  Aha!  can  I 
offer  you  a  pinch  of  snuff?  You  look  feverish,  sir;  surely 
this  room  must  affect  you,  though  you  are  too  polite  to  say  so. 
Pray  open  that  door,  and  then  this  window,  and  put  your  chair 
right  between  the  two.  You  have  no  notion  how  refreshing 
the  draught  is." 

Walter  politely  declined  the  proffered  ague;  and  thinking 
he  had  now  made  sufficient  progress  in  the  acquaintance  of 
this  singular  non-hypochondriac  to  introduce  the  subject  he 
had  most  at  heart,  hastened  to  speak  of  his  father. 

"I  have  chanced,  sir,"  said  he,  "very  unexpectedly  upon 
something  that  once  belonged  to  my  poor  father;"  here  he 
showed  the  whip.  "  I  find  from  the  saddler  of  whom  I  bought 
it  that  the  owner  was  at  your  house  some  twelve  or  fourteen 
years  ago.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  are  aware  that  our 
family  have  heard  nothing  respecting  my  father's  fate  for  a 
considerably  longer  time  than  that  which  has  elapsed  since 


156  EUGENE  ARAM. 

you  appear  to  have  seen  him,  if  at  least  I  may  hope  that  he 
was  your  guest  and  the  owner  of  this  whip;  and  any  news 
you  can  give  me  of  him,  any  clew  by  which  he  can  possibly 
be  traced,  would  be  to  us  all  —  to  me  in  particular  —  an  in- 
estimable obligation." 

"Your  father!"  said  Mr.  Courtland.  "Oh,  ay, —  your 
uncle's  brother.     What  was  his  Christian  name, —  Henry?" 

"Geoffrey." 

"  Ah,  exactly ;  Geoffrey !  What !  not  been  heard  of  ?  His 
family  not  know  where  he  is  ?  A  sad  thing,  sir;  but  he  was 
always  a  wild  fellow, —  now  here,  now  there,  like  a  flash  of 
lightning.  But  it  is  true,  it  is  true,  he  did  stay  a  day  here, 
several  years  ago,  when  I  first  bought  the  place;  I  can  tell 
you  all  about  it.  But  you  seem  agitated, —  do  come  nearer 
the  window ;  there,  that 's  right.  Well,  sir,  it  is,  as  I  said, 
a  great  many  years  ago,  —  perhaps  fourteen, — and  I  was 
speaking  to  the  landlord  of  the  Greyhound  about  some  hay  he 
wished  to  sell,  when  a  gentleman  rode  into  the  yard  full  tear, 
as  your  father  always  did  ride,  and  in  getting  out  of  his  way 
I  recognized  Geoffrey  Lester.  I  did  not  know  him  well, —  far 
from  it, —  but  I  had  seen  him  once  or  twice  with  your  uncle, 
and  though  he  was  a  strange  pickle,  he  sang  a  good  song  and 
was  deuced  amusing.  Well,  sir,  I  accosted  him;  and  for  the 
sake  of  your  uncle,  I  asked  him  to  dine  with  me  and  take  a 
bed  at  my  new  house.  Ah!  I  little  thought  what  a  dear 
bargain  it  was  to  be.  He  accepted  my  invitation;  for  I  fancy 
—  no  offence,  sir  —  there  were  few  invitations  that  Mr.  Geof- 
frey Lester  ever  refused  to  accept.  We  dined  tete-a-tete, —  I 
am  an  old  bachelor,  sir, —  and  very  entertaining  he  was, 
though  his  sentiments  seemed  to  me  broader  than  ever.  He 
was  capital,  however,  about  the  tricks  he  had  played  his  cred- 
itors,—  such  manoeuvres,  such  escapes !  After  dinner  he  asked 
me  if  I  ever  corresponded  with  his  brother.  I  told  him  no, 
that  we  were  very  good  friends,  but  never  heard  from  each 
other;  and  he  then  said,  'Well,  I  shall  surprise  him  with  a 
visit  shortly.  But  in  case  you  should  unexpectedly  have  any 
communication  with  him,  don't  mention  having  seen  me;  for, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  just  returned  from  India,  where  I 


EUGENE  ARAM.  157 

should  liave  scraped  up  a  little  money,  but  that  I  spent  it  as 
fast  as  I  got  it.  However,  you  know  that  I  was  always  pro- 
verbially the  luckiest  fellow  in  the  world  [and  so,  sir,  your 
father  was !],  and  while  I  was  in  India  I  saved  an  old  colonel's 
life  at  a  tiger-hunt.  He  went  home  shortly  afterwards,  and 
settled  in  Yorkshire ;  and  the  other  day,  on  my  return  to  Eng- 
land, to  which  my  ill-health  drove  me,  I  learned  that  my  old 
colonel  had  died  recently,  and  left  me  a  handsome  legacy, 
with  his  house  in  Yorkshire.  I  am  now  going  down  to  York- 
shire to  convert  the  chattels  into  gold,  to  receive  my  money ; 
and  I  shall  then  seek  out  my  good  brother,  my  household  gods, 
and  perhaps,  tliough  it 's  not  likely,  settle  into  a  sober  fellow 
for  the  rest  of  my  life.'  I  don't  tell  you,  young  gentleman, 
that  those  were  your  father's  exact  words, — one  can't  remem- 
ber verbatim  so  many  years  ago ;  but  it  was  to  that  effect.  He 
left  me  the  next  day,  and  I  never  heard  anything  more  of  him. 
To  say  the  truth,  he  was  looking  wonderfully  yellow,  and  fear- 
fully reduced.  And  I  fancied  at  the  time  he  could  not  live 
long:  he  was  prematurely  old,  and  decrepit  in  body,  though 
gay  in  spirit;  so  that  I  had  tacitly  imagined,  in  never  hearing 
of  him  more,  that  he  had  departed  life.  But,  good  heavens ! 
did  you  never  hear  of  this  legacy  ?  " 

"Xever;  not  a  word!"  said  Walter,  who  had  listened  to 
these  particulars  in  great  surprise.  "And  to  what  part  of 
Yorkshire  did  he  say  he  was  going  ? " 

"That  he  did  not  mention." 

"Kor  the  colonel's  name  ?  " 

"Not  as  I  remember;  he  might,  but  I  think  not.  But  I  am 
certain  that  the  county  was  Yorkshire,  and  the  gentleman, 
whatever  his  name,  was  a  colonel.  Stay:  I  recollect  one  more 
particular  which  it  is  lucky  I  do  remember.  Your  father,  in 
giving  me,  as  I  said  before,  in  his  own  humorous  strain,  the 
history  of  his  adventures,  his  hairbreadth  escapes  from  his 
duns,  the  various  disguises  and  the  numerous  aliases  he  had 
assumed,  mentioned  that  the  name  he  had  borne  in  India, 
and  by  which,  he  assured  me,  he  had  made  quite  a  good  char- 
acter, was  Clarke;  he  also  said,  by  the  way,  that  he  still 
kept  to  that  name,  and  was  very  merry  on  the  advantages  of 


158  EUGENE  ARAM. 

having  so  common  a  one, — '  By  which,'  he  observed  wittily, 
'  he  could  father  all  his  own  sins  on  some  other  Mr.  Clarke, 
at  the  same  time  that  he  could  seize  and  appropriate  all  the 
merits  of  all  his  other  namesakes.'  Ah,  no  offence,  but  he 
was  a  sad  dog,  that  father  of  yours !  So  you  see  that  in  all 
probability,  if  he  ever  reached  Yorkshire,  it  was  under  the 
name  of  Clarke  that  he  claimed  and  received  his  legacy." 

"You  have  told  me  more,"  said  Walter,  joyfully,  "than  we 
have  heard  since  his  disappearance;  and  I  shall  turn  my 
horses'  heads  northward  to-morrow,  by  break  of  day.  But 
you  say,  'If  he  ever  reached  Yorkshire.'  What  should  pre- 
vent him  ?  " 

"His  health!"  said  the  non-hypochondriac.  "I  should  not 
be  greatly  surprised  if  —  if  —  In  short,  you  had  better  look 
at  the  gravestones  by  the  way  for  the  name  of  Clarke." 

"Perhaps  you  can   give  me  the  dates,  sir,"  said  Walter, 
somewhat  cast  down  by  that  melancholy  admonition. 

"Ah!  I  '11  see,  I  '11  see  after  dinner;  the  commonness  of  the 
name  has  its  disadvantages  now.  Poor  Geoffrey !  I  dare  say 
there  are  fifty  tombs  to  the  memory  of  fifty  Clarkes  between 
this  and  York.     But  come,  sir,  there's  the  dinner-bell." 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  maladies  entailed  uj)on  the 
portly  frame  of  Mr.  Courtland  by  the  vegetable  life  of  the 
departed  trees,  a  want  of  appetite  was  not  among  the  number. 
Whenever  a  man  is  not  abstinent  from  rule  or  from  early 
habit,  solitude  makes  its  votaries  particularly  fond  of  their 
dinner.  They  have  no  other  event  wherewith  to  mark  their 
day;  they  think  over  it,  they  anticipate  it,  they  nourish  its 
soft  idea  in  their  imagination :  if  they  do  look  forward  to  any- 
thing else  more  than  dinner,  it  is  —  supper ! 

Mr.  Courtland  deliberately  pinned  the  napkin  to  his  waist- 
coat, ordered  all  the  windows  to  be  thrown  open,  and  set  to 
work  like  the  good  canon  in  "Gil  Bias."  He  still  retained 
enough  of  his  former  self  to  preserve  an  excellent  cook ;  and 
though  most  of  his  viands  were  of  the  plainest,  who  does  not 
know  what  skill  it  requires  to  produce  an  unexceptionable 
roast,  or  a  blameless  broil ! 

Half  a  tureen  of  strong  soup,  three  pounds  at  least  of  stewed 


EUGENE  ARAM.  159 

carp,  all  the  under  part  of  a  sirloin  of  beef,  three  quarters  of 
a  tongue,  the  moiety  of  a  chicken,  six  pancakes  and  a  tartlet, 
having  severally  disappeared  down  the  jaws  of  the  invalid, — 

"  Et  cuncta  terrarum  subacta 
Prteter  atrocem  auimum  Catonis,"  ^  — 

he  still  called  for  two  devilled  biscuits  and  an  anchovy! 

When  these  were  gone,  he  had  the  wine  set  on  a  little  table 
by  the  window,  and  declared  that  the  air  seemed  closer  than 
ever.  Walter  was  no  longer  surprised  at  the  singular  nature 
of  the  non-hypochondriac's  complaint. 

Walter  declined  the  bed  that  Mr.  Courtland  offered  him, — 
though  his  host  kindly  assured  him  that  it  had  no  curtains, 
and  that  there  was  not  a  shutter  to  the  house, —  upon  the  plea 
of  starting  the  next  morning  at  daybreak,  and  his  consequent 
unwillingness  to  disturb  the  regular  establishment  of  the  in- 
valid; and  Courtland,  who  was  still  an  excellent,  hospitable, 
friendly  man,  suffered  his  friend's  nephew  to  depart  with 
regret.  He  supplied  him,  however,  by  a  reference  to  an  old 
note-book,  with  the  date  of  the  year,  and  even  month,  in 
which  he  had  been  favored  by  a  visit  from  Mr.  Clarke,  who, 
it  seemed,  had  also  changed  his  Christian  name  from  Geoffrey 
to  one  beginning  with  D. ;  but  whether  it  was  David  or  Daniel 
the  host  remembered  not.  In  parting  with  Walter,  Courtland 
shook  his  head  and  observed, — 

"  Untre  nous,  sir,  I  fear  this  may  be  a  wild-goose  chase. 
Your  father  was  too  facetious  to  confine  himself  to  fact, —  ex- 
cuse me,  sir, — and  perhaps  the  colonel  and  the  legacy  were 
merely  inventions  pour  passer  le  temps ;  there  was  only  one 
reason,  indeed,  that  made  me  fully  believe  the  story." 

"  What  was  that,  sir  ? "  asked  Walter,  blushing  deeply  at 
the  universality  of  that  estimation  his  father  had  obtained. 

"Excuse  me,  my  young  friend." 

"Nay,  sir,  let  me  press  you." 

"Why,  then,  Mr.  Geoffrey  Lester  did  not  ask  me  to  lend 
him  any  money." 

The  next  morning,  instead  of  repairing  to  the  gayeties  of 

1  "And  everything  of  earth  subdued,  except  the  resolute  mind  of  Cato." 


160  EUGENE  ARAM. 

the  metropolis,  Walter  had,  upon  this  dubious  clew,  altered 
his  journey  northward;  and  with  an  unquiet  yet  sanguine 
spirit,  the  adventurous  son  commenced  his  search  after  the 
fate  of  a  father  evidently  so  unworthy  of  the  anxiety  he  had 
excited. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 
Walter's  meditations. —  the  corporal's  grief  and  anger. 

THE  corporal  PERSONALLY  DESCRIBED. AN  EXPLANA- 
TION   WITH     HIS     MASTER. THE     CORPORAL     OPENS     HIMSELF 

TO    THE     YOUNG     TRAVELLER. HIS     OPINIONS     OF     LOVE;     ON 

THE  world;  ON  THE  PLEASURE  AND  RESPECTABILITY  OF 
CHEATING;  ON  LADIES,  AND  A  PARTICULAR  CLASS  OF  LADIES; 
ON  AUTHORS;  ON  THE  VALUE  OF  WORDS;  ON  FIGHTING: 
WITH  SUNDRY  OTHER  MATTERS  OF  EQUAL  DELECTATION  AND 
IMPROVEMENT. AN    UNEXPECTED    EVENT. 

Quale  per  incertam  lunam  sub  Ince  maligna 
Est  iter.i  —  Virgil. 

The  road  prescribed  to  our  travellers  by  the  change  in  their 
destination  led  them  back  over  a  considerable  portion  of  the 
ground  they  had  already  traversed;  and  since  the  corporal  took 
care  that  they  should  remain  some  hours  in  the  place  where 
they  dined,  night  fell  upon  them  as  they  found  themselves 
in  the  midst  of  the  same  long  and  dreary  stage  in  which 
they  had  encountered  Sir  Peter  Hales  and  the  two  suspected 
highwaymen. 

Walter's  mind  was  full  of  the  project  on  which  he  was  bent. 
The  reader  can  fully  comprehend  how  vivid  were  the  emotions 
called  up  by  the  hope  of  a  solution  of  the  enigma  to  his 
father's  fate;  and  sanguinely  did  he  now  indulge  those  in- 
tense meditations  with  which  the  imaginative  minds  of  the 
young  always  brood  over  every  more  favorite  idea,  until  they 
exalt  the  hope  into  a  passion.     Everything  connected  with 

1  "  Even  as  a  journey  by  the  unpropitious  light  of  the  uncertain  moon." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  161 

this  strange  and  roving  parent  had  possessed  for  the  breast  of 
his  son  not  only  an  anxious,  but  indulgent  interest.  The 
judgment  of  a  young  man  is  always  inclined  to  sympathize 
with  the  wilder  and  more  enterprising  order  of  spirits;  and 
Walter  had  been  at  no  loss  for  secret  excuses  wherewith  to 
defend  the  irregular  life  and  reckless  habits  of  his  parent. 
Amidst  all  his  father's  evident  and  utter  want  of  principle, 
Walter  clung  with  a  natural  and  self-deceptive  partiality  to 
the  few  traits  of  courage  or  generosity  which  relieved,  if  they 
did  not  redeem,  his  character, —  traits  which,  with  a  character 
of  that  stamp,  are  so  often,  though  always  so  unprofitably 
blended,  and  which  generally  cease  with  the  commencement 
of  age.  He  now  felt  elated  by  the  conviction,  as  he  had  al- 
ways been  inspired  by  the  hope,  that  it  was  to  be  his  lot  to 
discover  one  whom  he  still  believed  living,  and  whom  he 
trusted  to  find  amended.  The  same  intimate  persuasion  of 
the  "  good  luck  "  of  Geoffrey  Lester,  which  all  who  had  known 
him  appeared  to  entertain,  was  felt  even  in  a  more  credulous 
and  earnest  degree  by  his  son.  Walter  gave  way  now,  indeed, 
to  a  variety  of  conjectures  as  to  the  motives  which  could  have 
induced  his  father  to  persist  in  the  concealment  of  his  fate 
after  his  return  to  England;  but  such  of  those  conjectures  as, 
if  the  more  rational,  were  also  the  more  despondent,  he  speed- 
ily and  resolutely  dismissed.  Sometimes  he  thought  that  his 
father,  on  learning  the  death  of  the  wife  he  had  abandoned, 
might  have  been  possessed  with  a  remorse  which  rendered  him 
unwilling  to  disclose  himself  to  the  rest  of  his  family,  and  a 
feeling  that  the  main  tie  of  home  was  broken;  sometimes  he 
thought  that  the  wanderer  had  been  disappointed  in  his  ex- 
pected legacy,  and,  dreading  the  attacks  of  his  creditors,  or 
unwilling  to  throw  himself  once  more  on  the  generosity  of 
his  brother,  had  again  suddenly  quitted  England  and  entered 
on  some  enterprise  or  occupation  abroad.  It  was  also  possi- 
ble, to  one  so  reckless  and  changeful,  that  even,  after  receiv 
ing  the  legacy,  a  proposition  from  some  wild  comrade  might 
have  hurried  him  away  on  any  Continental  project  at  the  mere 
impulse  of  the  moment, —  for  the  impulse  of  the  moment  had 
always  been  the  guide  of  his  life;  and  once  abroad,  he  might 

11 


162  EUGENE  ARAM. 

have  returned  to  India,  and  in  new  connections  forgotten  the 
old  ties  at  home.  Letters  from  abroad,  too,  miscarry;  and  it 
was  not  improbable  that  the  wanderer  might  have  written 
repeatedly,  and  receiving  no  answer  to  his  comnumications, 
imagined  that  the  dissoluteness  of  his  life  had  deprived  him 
of  the  affections  of  his  family;  and  deserving  so  well  to  have 
the  proffer  of  renewed  intercourse  rejected,  believed  that  it 
actually  was  so.  These  and  a  hundred  similar  conjectures 
found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  traveller ;  but  the  chances 
of  a  fatal  accident  or  sudden  death  he  pertinaciously  refused 
at  present  to  include  in  the  number  of  probabilities.  Had  his 
father  been  seized  with  a  mortal  illness  on  the  road,  was  it 
not  likely  that,  in  the  remorse  occasioned  in  the  hardiest  by 
approaching  death,  he  would  have  written  to  his  brother,  and, 
recommending  his  child  to  his  care,  have  apprised  him  of  the 
addition  to  his  fortune  ?  Walter,  then,  did  not  meditate  em- 
barrassing his  present  journey  by  those  researches  among  the 
dead  which  the  worthy  Courtland  had  so  considerately  recom- 
mended to  his  prudence;  should  his  expedition,  contrary  to 
his  hopes,  prove  wholly  unsuccessful,  it  might  then  be  well 
to  retrace  his  steps  and  adopt  the  suggestion.  But  what  man, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  ever  took  much  precaution  on  the 
darker  side  of  a  question  in  which  his  heart  was  interested  ? 

With  what  pleasure,  escaping  from  conjecture  to  a  more 
ultimate  conclusion,  did  he,  in  recalling  those  words,  in  which 
his  father  had  more  than  hinted  to  Courtland  of  his  future 
amendment,  contemplate  recovering  a  parent  made  wise  by 
years  and  sober  by  misfortunes,  and  restoring  him  to  a  hearth 
of  tranquil  virtues  and  peaceful  enjoyments !  He  imaged  to 
himself  a  scene  of  that  domestic  happiness  which  is  so  perfect 
in  our  dreams,  because  in  our  dreams  monotony  is  always 
excluded  from  the  picture.  And  in  this  creation  of  Fancy, 
the  form  of  Ellinor,  his  bright-eyed  and  gentle  cousin,  was 
not  the  least  conspicuous.  Since  his  altercation  with  Made- 
line, the  love  he  had  once  thought  so  ineffaceable  had  faded 
into  a  dim  and  sullen  hue;  and  in  proportion  as  the  image  of 
Madeline  grew  indistinct,  that  of  her  sister  became  more  bril- 
liant.    Often,  now,  as  he  rode  slowly  onward  in  the  quiet  of 


EUGENE   ARAJ^I.  163 

the  deepening  night,  and  the  mellow  stars  softening  all  on 
which  they  shone,  he  pressed  the  little  token  of  Ellinor's  af- 
fection to  his  heart,  and  wondered  that  it  was  only  within  the 
last  few  days  he  had  discovered  that  her  eyes  were  more  beau- 
tiful than  Madeline's  and  her  smile  more  touching.  Mean- 
while the  redoubted  corporal,  who  was  by  no  means  pleased 
with  the  change  in  his  master's  plans,  lingered  behind,  whist- 
ling the  most  melancholy  tune  in  his  collection.  No  young 
lady,  anticipative  of  balls  or  coronets,  had  ever  felt  more 
complacent  satisfaction  in  a  journey  to  London  than  that 
which  had  cheered  the  athletic  breast  of  the  veteran  on  find- 
ing himself  at  last  within  one  day's  gentle  march  of  the  me- 
tropolis. And  no  young  lady  suddenly  summoned  back  in  the 
first  flush  of  her  debut  by  an  unseasonable  fit  of  gout  or  econ- 
omy in  papa,  ever  felt  more  irreparably  aggrieved  than  now 
did  the  dejected  corporal.  His  master  had  not  yet  even  ac- 
quainted him  with  the  cause  of  the  counter-march ;  and  in  his 
own  heart  he  believed  it  nothing  but  the  wanton  levity  and 
unpardonable  fickleness  "  common  to  all  them  'ere  boys  afore 
they  have  seen  the  world."  He  certainly  considered  himself 
a  singularly  ill-used  and  injured  man;  and  drawing  himself 
up  to  his  full  height,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  with  which  Heaven 
should  be  acquainted  at  the  earliest  possible  opportunity,  he 
indulged,  as  we  before  said,  in  the  melancholy  consolation  of 
a  whistled  death-dirge,  occasionally  interrupted  by  a  long- 
drawn  interlude,  half  sigh,  half  snuffle,  of  his  favorite  augh, 
baugh ! 

And  here  we  remember  that  we  have  not  as  yet  given  to 
our  reader  a  fitting  portrait  of  the  corporal  on  horseback. 
Perhaps  no  better  opportunity  than  the  present  may  occur; 
and  perhaps,  also.  Corporal  Bunting,  as  well  as  Melrose 
Abbey,  may  seem  a  yet  more  interesting  picture  when  viewed 
by  the  pale  moonlight. 

The  corporal,  then,  wore  on  his  head  a  small  cocked  hat 
which  had  formerly  belonged  to  the  colonel  of  the  Forty-sec- 
ond,—the  prints  of  my  uncle  Toby  may  serve  to  suggest  its 
shape;  it  had  once  boasted  a  feather,  — that  was  gone:  but 
the  gold  lace,  though  tarnished,  and  the  cockade,  though  bat- 


164  EUGEXE  ARAM. 

tered,  still  remained.  From  under  this  shade  the  profile  of 
the  corporal  assumed  a  particular  aspect  of  heroism.  Though 
a  good-looking  man  in  the  main,  it  was  his  air,  height,  and 
complexion  which  made  him  so;  and,  unlike  Lucian's  one- 
eyed  prince,  a  side  view  was  not  the  most  favorable  point  in 
which  his  features  could  be  regarded.  His  eyes,  which  were 
small  and  shrewd,  were  half  hid  by  a  pair  of  thick,  shaggy 
brows,  which,  while  he  whistled,  he  moved  to  and  fro  as  a 
horse  moves  his  ears  when  he  gives  warning  that  he  intends 
to  shy.  His  nose  was  straight, —  so  far  so  good:  but  then  it 
did  not  go  far  enough;  for  though  it  seemed  no  despicable 
proboscis  in  front,  somehow  or  another  it  appeared  exceedingly 
short  in  profile.  To  make  up  for  this,  the  upper  lip  was  of 
a  length  the  more  striking  from  being  exceedingly  straight, — 
it  had  learned  to  hold  itself  upright  and  make  the  most  of  its 
length,  as  well  as  its  master.  His  under  lip,  alone  protruded 
in  the  act  of  whistling,  served  yet  more  markedly  to  throw 
the  nose  into  the  background.  And  as  for  the  chin, —  talk  of 
the  upper  lip  being  long,  indeed!  the  chin  would  have  made 
two  of  it.  Such  a  chin!  so  long,  so  broad,  so  massive,  had  it 
been  put  on  a  dish  it  might  have  passed,  without  discredit, 
for  a  round  of  beef;  and  it  looked  yet  larger  than  it  was,  from 
the  exceeding  tightness  of  the  stiff,  black-leather  stock  below, 
which  forced  forth  all  the  flesh  it  encountered  into  another 
chin, —  a  remove  to  the  round!  The  hat  being  somewhat  too 
small  for  the  corporal,  and  being  cocked  knowingly  in  front, 
left  the  hinder  half  of  the  head  exposed.  And  the  hair, 
carried  into  a  club  according  to  the  fashion,  lay  thick,  and  of 
a  grizzled  black,  on  the  brawny  shoulders  below.  The  vet- 
eran was  dressed  in  a  blue  coat,  originally  a  frock;  but  the 
skirts,  having  once,  to  the  imminent  peril  of  the  place  they 
guarded,  caught  fire  as  the  corporal  stood  basking  himself  at 
Peter  Dealtry's,  had  been  so  far  amputated  as  to  leave  only 
the  stump  of  a  tail,  which  just  covered,  and  no  more,  that 
part  which  neither  Art  in  bipeds  nor  Nature  in  quadrupeds 
loves  to  leave  Avholly  exposed.  And  that  part,  ah,  how  am- 
ple! Had  Liston  seen  it,  he  would  have  hid  forever  his  di- 
minished—  opposite  to  head!     No  wonder  the  corporal  had 


EUGENE   ARAM.  165 

been  so  annoyed  by  the  parcel  of  the  previous  day !  A  coat  so 
short  and  a —  ;  but  no  matter,  pass  we  to  the  rest.  It  was 
not  only  in  its  skirts  that  this  wicked  coat  was  deficient:  the 
corporal,  who  had  within  the  last  few  years  thriven  lustily 
in  the  inactive  serenity  of  Grassdale,  had  outgrown  it  prodi- 
giously across  the  chest  and  girth;  nevertheless  he  managed  to 
button  it  up.  And  thus  the  muscular  proportions  of  the 
wearer,  bursting  forth  in  all  quarters,  gave  him  the  ludicrous 
appearance  of  a  gigantic  schoolboy.  His  wrists  and  large, 
sinewy  hands,  both  employed  at  the  bridle  of  his  hard-mouthed 
charger,  were  markedly  visible;  for  it  was  the  corporal's 
custom,  whenever  he  came  to  an  obscure  part  of  the  road, 
carefully  to  take  off  and  prudently  to  pocket  a  pair  of  scrup- 
ulously clean  white  leather  gloves,  which  smartened  up  his 
appearance  prodigiously  in  passing  through  the  towns  in  their 
route.  His  breeches  were  of  yellow  buckskin  and  ineffably 
tight;  his  stockings  were  of  gray  worsted;  and  a  i)air  of  laced 
boots,  that  reached  the  ascent  of  a  very  mountainous  calf,  but 
declined  any  farther  progress,  completed  his  attire. 

Fancy,  then,  this  figure,  seated  with  laborious  and  unswerv- 
ing perpendicularity  on  a  demi-pique  saddle  ornamented  with 
a  huge  pair  of  well-stuffed  saddle-bags,  and  holsters  revealing 
the  stocks  of  a  brace  of  immense  pistols,  the  horse  with  its 
obstinate  mouth  thrust  out,  and  the  bridle  drawn  as  tight  as 
a  bowstring,  its  ears  laid  sullenly  down,  as  if,  like  the  cor- 
poral, it  complained  of  going  to  Yorkshire,  and  its  long  thick 
tail,  not  set  up  in  a  comely  and  well-educated  arch,  but  hang- 
ing sheepishly  down,  as  if  resolved  that  its  buttocks  should  at 
least  be  better  covered  than  its  master's! 

And  now,  reader,  it  is  not  our  fault  if  you  cannot  form  some 
conception  of  the  physical  perfections  of  the  corporal  and  his 
steed. 

The  revery  of  the  contemplative  Bunting  was  interrupted  by 
the  voice  of  his  master  calling  upon  him  to  approach. 

"Well,  well,"  muttered  he,  "the  younker  can't  expect  one 
as  close  at  his  heels  as  if  we  were  trotting  into  Lunnon,  which 
we  might  be  at  this  time,  sure  enough,  if  he  had  not  been  so 
d — d  flighty,  aughl  " 


t66  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"  Bunting,  I  say,  do  you  hear  ?  " 

"Yes,  your  honor,  yes;  this  'ere  horse  is  so  'nation  sluggish." 

"Sluggish!  why,  I  thought  he  was  too  much  the  reverse, 
Bunting.  I  thought  he  was  one  rather  requiring  the  bridle 
than  the  spur." 

"  Augh !  your  honor,  he  's  slow  when  he  should  not,  and  fast 
when  he  should  not, —  changes  his  mind  from  pure  whim  or 
pure  spite.  New  to  the  world,  your  honor,  that 's  all ;  a 
different  thing  if  properly  broke.     There  be  a  many  like  him!  " 

"You  mean  to  be  personal,  Mr.  Bunting,"  said  Walter, 
laughing  at  the  evident  ill-humor  of  his  attendant. 

"Augh!  indeed,  and  no!  —  I  daren't.  A  poor  man  like  me 
go  for  to  presume  to  be  parsonal, —  unless  I  get  hold  of  a 
poorer !  " 

"  Why,  Bunting,  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you  would  be 
so  ungenerous  as  to  affront  a  man  because  he  was  poorer  than 
you  ?     Fie !  " 

"  Whaugh,  your  honor !  and  is  not  that  the  very  reason  why 
I  'd  affront  him  ?  Surely,  it  is  not  my  betters  I  should  af- 
front,—  that  would  be  ill-bred,  your  honor;  quite  want  of 
discipline." 

"  But  we  owe  it  to  our  Great  Commander, "  said  Walter,  "  to 
love  all  men." 

"Augh,  sir!  that's  very  good  maxim, — none  better;  but 
shows  ignorance  of  the  world,  sir,  great !  " 

"Bvinting,  your  way  of  thinking  is  quite  disgraceful.  Do 
you  know,  sir,  that  it  is  the  Bible  you  were  speaking  of  ?  " 

"Augh,  sir!  but  the  Bible  was  addressed  to  them  Jew  cret- 
urs!  Howsomever,  it's  an  excellent  book  for  the  poor, — 
keeps  'm  in  order,  favors  discipline;  none  more  so." 

"Hold  your  tongue!  I  called  you,  Bunting,  because  I 
think  I  heard  you  say  you  had  once  been  at  York.  Do  you 
know  what  towns  we  shall  pass  on  our  road  thither  ?  " 

"Not  I,  your  honor:  it 's  a  mighty  long  way.  What  would 
the  squire  think  ?  Just  at  Lunnon,  too!  Could  have  learned 
the  whole  road,  sir,  inns  and  all,  if  you  had  but  gone  on  to 
Lunnon  first.  Howsomever,  young  gentlemen  will  be  hasty, 
—  no  confidence  in  those  older,  and  who  are  experienced  in 


EUGENE   ARAM.  167 

the  world.  I  knows  what  I  knows ;  "  and  the  corporal  recom- 
menced his  whistle. 

"  Why,  Bunting,  you  seem  quite  discontented  at  my  change 
of  journey.  Are  you  tired  of  riding,  or  were  you  very  eager 
to  get  to  town  ?  " 

"Augh!  sir,  I  was  only  thinking  of  what's  best  for  your 
honor.  I — 'tis  not  for  me  to  like  or  dislike.  Howsomever, 
the  horses,  poor  creturs,  must  want  rest  for  some  days.  Them 
dumb  animals  can't  go  on  forever,  bumpety,  bumpety,  as  your 
honor  and  I  do.     Whaugh !  " 

"It  is  very  true,  Bunting;  and  I  have  had  some  thoughts 
of  sending  you  home  again  with  the  horses,  and  travelling 
post." 

"Eh!  "  grunted  the  corporal,  opening  his  eyes,  "hopes  your 
honor  be  n't  serious." 

"  Why,  if  you  continue  to  look  so  serious,  I  must  be  serious 
too.     You  understand.  Bunting  ?  " 

"Augh!  and  that's  all,  your  honor,"  cried  the  corporal, 
brightening  up;  "shall  look  merry  enough  to-morrow,  when 
one  's  in,  as  it  were,  like,  to  the  change  of  the  road.  But  you 
see,  sir,  it  took  me  by  surprise.  Said  I  to  myself,  says  I,  It 
is  an  odd  thing  for  you,  Jacob  Bunting,  on  the  faith  of  a  man 
it  is,  to  go  tramp  here,  tramp  there,  without  knowing  why  or 
wherefore,  as  if  you  were  still  a  private  in  the  Forty-second, 
'stead  of  a  retired  corporal.  You  see,  your  honor,  my  pride 
was  a-hurt;  but  it 's  all  over  now, — only  spites  those  beneath 
me.     I  knows  the  world  at  my  time  o'  life." 

"  Well,  Bunting,  when  you  learn  the  reason  of  my  change 
of  plan,  you  '11  be  perfectly  satisfied  that  I  do  quite  right.  In 
a  word,  you  know  that  my  father  has  been  long  missing;  I 
have  found  a  clew  by  which  I  yet  hope  to  trace  him.  This  is 
the  reason  of  my  journey  to  Yorkshire." 

"  Augh !  "  said  the  corporal,  "  and  a  very  good  reason.  You  're 
a  most  excellent  son,  sir, —  and  Lunnon  so  nigh!  " 

"The  thought  of  London  seems  to  have  bewitched  you.  Did 
you  expect  to  find  the  streets  of  gold  since  you  were  there 
last  ?  " 

"A  —  well,  sir,  I  hears  they  be  greatly  improved." 


168  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"  Pshaw !  you  talk  of  knowing  the  world,  Bunting,  and  yet 
you  pant  to  enter  it  with  all  the  inexperience  of  a  boy.  Why, 
even  I  could  set  you  an  example." 

'"Tis  'cause  I  knows  the  world,"  said  the  corporal,  exceed- 
ingly nettled,  "that  I  wants  to  get  back  to  it.  1  have  heard 
of  some  spoonies  as  never  kist  a  girl  5  but  never  heard  of  any 
one  who  had  kist  a  girl  once  that  did  not  long  to  be  at  it 
again." 

"And  I  suppose,  Mr.  Profligate,  it  is  that  longing  which 
makes  you  so  hot  for  London  ?  " 

"There  have  been  worse  longings  nor  that,"  quoth  the  cor- 
poral, gravely. 

"  Perhaps  you  meditate  marrying  one  of  the  London  belles, 

—  an  heiress,  eh  ?" 

"Can't  but  say,"  said  the  corporal,  very  solemnly,  "but 
that  might  be  'ticed  to  marry  a  fortin,  if  so  be  she  was  young, 
pretty,  good-tempered,  and  fell  desperately  m  love  with  me,  — 
best  quality  of  all." 

"You  're  a  modest  fellow." 

"Why,  the  longer  a  man  lives,  the  more  knows  his  value. 
Would  not  sell  myself  a  bargain  now,  whatever  might  at 
twenty-one." 

"  At  that  rate  you  would  be  beyond  all  price  at  seventy,"  said 
Walter.     "  But  now  tell  me,  Bunting,  were  you  ever  in  love, 

—  really  and  honestly  in  love  ?" 

"Indeed,  your  honor,"  said  the  corporal,  "I  have  been  over 
head  and  ears ;  but  that  was  afore  I  learnt  to  swim.  Love  's 
very  like  bathing.  At  first  we  go  souse  to  the  bottom ;  but  if 
we  're  not  drowned  then,  we  gather  pluck,  grow  calm,  strike 
out  gently,  and  make  a  deal  pleasanter  thing  of  it  afore  we  've 
done.  I  '11  tell  you,  sir,  what  I  thinks  of  love :  'twixt  you  and 
me,  sir,  't  is  not  that  great  thing  in  life  boys  and  girls  want 
to  make  it  out  to  be.  If  'twere  one's  dinner,  that  would  be 
summut,  for  one  can't  do  without  that;  but  lauk,  sir,  love's 
all  in  the  fancy.  One  does  not  eat  it,  nor  drink  it;  and  as  for 
the  rest,  —  why,  it 's  bother!  " 

"Bunting,  you're  a  beast,"  said  Walter,  in  a  rage;  for 
though  the  corporal  had  come  off  with  a  slight  rebuke  for  his 


EUGENE   ARAM.  169 

sneer  at  religion,  we  grieve  to  say  that  an  attack  on  the  sa- 
credness  of  love  seemed,  a  crime  beyond  all  toleration  to  the 
theologian  of  twenty-one. 

The  corporal  bowed,   and   thrust  his  tongue  in  his  cheek. 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  moments. 

"And  what,"  said  Walter,  for  his  spirits  were  raised,  and 
he  liked  recurring  to  the  quaint  shrewdness  of  the  corporal, 
"and  what,  after  all,  is  the  great  charm  of  the  world,  that 
you  so  much  wished  to  return  to  it  ?  " 

"Augh!  "  replied  the  corporal,  "'tis  a  pleasant  thing  to 
look  about  un  with  all  one's  eyes  open:  rogue  here,  rogue 
there, — keeps  one  alive.  Life  in  Lunnon,  life  in  a  village, 
—  all  the  difference  'twixt  healthy  walk  and  a  doze  in  arm- 
chair ;    by  the  faith  of  a  man,  't  is !  " 

"  What !  it  is  pleasant  to  have  rascals  about  one  ?  " 

"SureZy  yes,"  returned  the  corporal,  dryly.  "What  so  de- 
lightful like  as  to  feel  one's  cliverness  and  'bility  all  set  on 
end, — bristling  up  like  a  porkypine  ?  Nothing  makes  a  man 
tread  so  light,  feel  so  proud,  breathe  so  briskly,  as  the  know- 
ledge that  he  has  all  his  wits  about  him,  that  he  's  a  match  for 
any  one,  that  the  divil  himself  could  not  take  him  in ! " 

Walter  laughed. 

"  And  to  feel  one  is  likely  to  be  cheated  is  the  pleasantest 
way  of  passing  one's  time  in  town,  Bunting,  eh  ?  " 

"  Augh !  and  in  cheating  too ! "  answered  the  corporal ; 
"'cause  you  sees,  sir,  there  be  two  ways  o'  living:  one  to 
cheat,  —  one  to  be  cheated.  'T  is  pleasant  enough  to  be  cheated 
for  a  little  while,  as  the  younkers  are,  and  as  you  '11  be,  your 
honor;  but  that's  a  pleasure  don't  last  long, —  t'other  lasts 
all  your  life.  Dare  say  your  honor  's  often  heard  rich  gentle- 
men say  to  their  sons,  'You  ought,  for  your  own  happiness 's 
sake  like,  my  lad,  to  have  summut  to  do ;  ought  to  have  some 
profession,  be  you  niver  so  rich : '  very  true,  your  honor ;  and 
what  does  that  mean  ?  Why,  it  means  that,  'stead  of  being 
idle  and  cheated,  the  boy  ought  to  be  busy  and  cheat, 
augh!  " 

"Must  a  man  who  follows  a  profession  necessarily  cheat, 
then  ?" 


170  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"  Baugh !  can  your  honor  ask  that  ?  Does  not  the  lawyer 
cheat  ?  and  the  doctor  cheat  ?  and  the  parson  cheat  more  than 
any  ?  And  that 's  the  reason  they  all  takes  so  much  int'rest 
in  their  profession, —  bother!  " 

"But  the  soldier  ?     You  say  nothing  of  him." 

"Why,  the  soldier,"  said  the  corporal,  with  dignity, —  "  the 
private  soldier,  poor  fellow,  is  only  cheated;  but  when  he 
comes  for  to  get  for  to  be  as  high  as  a  corp'ral,  or  a  sargent, 
he  comes  for  to  get  to  bully  others  and  to  cheat.  Augh!  then, 
'tis  not  for  the  privates  to  cheat;  that  would  be  'sumption 
indeed,  save  us !  " 

"  The  general,  then,  cheats  more  than  any,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"'Course,  your  honor:  he  talks  to  the  world  'bout  honor, 
an'  glory,  and  love  of  his  country,  and  such  like!  Augh! 
that's  proper   cheating!" 

"  You  're  a  bitter  fellow,  Mr.  Bunting.  And,  pray,  what 
do  you  think  of  the  ladies  ?  Are  they  as  bad  as  the 
men?  " 

"Ladies, —  augh!  when  they're  married,  yes.  But  of  all 
them  'ere  creturs,  I  respects  the  kept  ladies  the  most;  on  the 
faith  of  a  man,  I  do !  Gad !  how  well  they  knows  the  world, 
—  one  quite  envies  the  she-rogues;  they  beats  the  wives  hol- 
low! Augh!  and  your  honor  should  see  how  they  fawns,  and 
flatters,  and  butters  up  a  man,  and  makes  him  think  they 
loves  him  like  winkey,  all  the  time  they  ruins  him!  They 
kisses  money  out  of  the  miser,  and  sits  in  their  satins,  while 
the  wife  —  'drot  her!  — sulks  in  a  gingham.  Oh,  they  be  di- 
ver creturs,  and  they  '11  do  what  they  likes  with  Old  Nick, 
when  they  gets  there,  for  't  is  the  old  gentlemen  they  cozens 
the  best.  And  then,"  continued  the  corporal,  waxing  more 
and  more  loquacious,  for  his  appetite  in  talking  grew  with 
what  it  fed  on,  —  "  then  there  be  another  set  o'  queer  folks 
you'll  see  in  Lunnon,  sir;  that  is,  if  you  falls  in  with 
'em,  —  hang  all  together,  quite  in  a  clink.  I  seed  lots  on  'em 
when  lived  with  the  colonel, —  Colonel  Dysart,  you  knows, 
augh!  " 

"  And  what  are  they  ?  " 

"Rum  ones,  your  honor;  what  they  calls  authors." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  171 

"Authors!  what  the  deuce  had  you  or  the  colonel  to  do  with 
authors  ?  " 

"Augh!  then,  the  colonel  was  a  very  fine  gentleman, —  what 
the  larned  calls  a  my-seen-ass ;  wrote  little  songs  himself, — 
'cross-ticks,  you  knows,  your  honor.  Once  he  made  a  play, — 
'cause  why  ?     He  lived  with  an  actress !  " 

"A  very  good  reason  indeed  for  emulating  Shakspeare! 
And  did  the  play  succeed  ?  " 

"  Fancy  it  did,  your  honor,  for  the  colonel  was  a  dab  with 
the  scissors." 

"Scissors!     The  pen,  you  mean." 

"  No,  that 's  what  the  dirty  authors  make  plays  with ;  a  lord 
and  a  colonel,  my-seen-asses,  always  takes  the  scissors." 

"  How  ?  " 

"Why,  the  colonel's  lady  had  lots  of  plays,  and  she  marked 
a  scene  here,  a  jest  there,  a  line  in  one  place,  a  bit  of  blarney 
in  t'other;  and  the  colonel  sat  by  with  a  great  paper  book, 
cut  'em  out,'  pasted  them  in  book.  Augh!  but  the  colonel 
pleased  the  town  mightily." 

"  Well,  so  he  saw  a  great  many  authors :  and  did  not  they 
please  you  ?  " 

"Why,  they  be  so  d — d  quarrelsome,"  said  the  corporal, — 
"  wringle,  wrangle,  wrongle,  snap,  growl,  scratch.  That 's 
not  what  a  man  of  the  world  does :  man  of  the  world  niver 
quarrels.  Then,  too,  these  creturs  always  fancy  you  forgets 
that  their  father  was  aclargyman;  they  always  thinks  more 
of  their  family  like  than  their  writings ;  and  if  they  does  not 
get  money  when  they  wants  it,  they  bristles  up  and  cries, 
'  Not  treated  like  a  gentleman,  by  G —  ! '  Yet,  after  all, 
they  've  a  deal  of  kindness  in  'em,  if  you  knows  how  to  man- 
age 'em,  augh!  but  cat-kindness, —  paw  to-day,  claw  to-mor- 
row. And  then  they  always  marries  young,  the  poor  things ! 
and  have  a  power  of  children,  and  live  on  the  fame  and  fortin 
they  are  to  get  one  of  these  days;  for,  my  eye!  they  be  the 
most  sanguinest  folks  alive." 

"Why,  Bunting,  what  an  observer  you  have  been!  Who 
could  ever  have  imagined  that  you  had  made  yourself  master 
of  so  many  varieties  in  men !  " 


172  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"Augli,  your  honor,  I  had  nothing  to  do  when  I  was  the 
colonel's  valley  but  to  take  notes  to  ladies  and  make  use  of 
my  eyes.     Always  a  'flective  man." 

*'  It  is  odd  that,  with  all  your  abilities,  you  did  not  provide 
better  for  yourself." 

"'Twas  not  my  fault,"  said  the  corporal,  quickly;  "but, 
somehow,  do  what  will,  't  is  not  always  the  cliverest  as  fore- 
sees the  best.     But  I  be  young  yet,  your  honor!  " 

Walter  stared  at  the  corporal,  and  laughed  outright.  The 
corporal  was  exceedingly  piqued. 

"  Augh!  mayhap  you  thinks,  sir,  that  'cause  not  so  young  as 
you,  not  young  at  all;  but  what's  forty,  or  fifty,  or  fifty-five 
in  public  life  ?  Never  hear  much  of  men  afore  then.  'T  is  the 
autumn  that  reaps ;  spring  sows  —  augh !  bother !  " 

"  Very  true,  and  very  poetical.  1  see  you  did  not  live  among 
authors  for  nothing." 

"I  knows  summut  of  language,  your  honor,"  quoth  the 
corporal,  pedantically. 

"It  is  evident." 

"For  to  be  a  man  of  the  world,  sir,  must  know  all  the  ins 
and  outs  of  speechifying  ;  't  is  words,  sir,  that  makes  another 
man's  mare  go  your  road.  Augh!  that  must  have  been  a  cliver 
man  as  invented  language;  wonders  who 'twas, —  mayhap 
Moses,  your  honor  ?  " 

"Never  mind  who  it  was,"  said  Walter,  gravely;  "use  the 
gift  discreetly." 

"Umph!"  said  the  corporal.  "Yes,  your  honor,"  renewed 
he,  after  a  pause,  "it  be  a  marvel  to  think  on  how  much  a 
man  does  in  the  way  of  cheating  as  has  the  gift  of  the  gab. 
Wants  a  missis,  talks  her  over;  wants  your  purse,  talks  you 
out  on  it;  wants  a  place,  talks  himself  into  it.  What  makes 
the  parson? — words;  the  lawyer?  —  words;  the  parliament 
man  ?  —  words.  Words  can  ruin  a  country,  in  the  big  house; 
words  saves  souls,  in  the  pulpits ;  words  make  even  them  'ere 
authors,  poor  creturs,  in  every  man's  mouth.  Augh!  sir, 
take  note  of  the  ivords,  and  the  things  will  take  care  of  them- 
selves —  bother !  " 

"Your  reflections  amaze  me,  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  smil- 


EUGENE   ARAM.  173 

ing.  **  But  the  night  begins  to  close  in ;  I  trust  we  shall  not 
meet  with  any  misadventure." 

" 'T  is  an  ugsome  bit  of  road!"  said  the  corporal,  looking 
round  him. 

"  The  pistols  ?  " 

"Primed  and  loaded,  your  honor." 

"After  all,  Bunting,  a  little  skirmish  would  be  no  bad  sport, 
eh,  especially  to  an  old  soldier  like  you  ?  " 

"Augh!  baugh!  'T  is  no  pleasant  work  fighting,  without 
pay,  at  least.  'T  is  not  like  love  and  eating,  your  honor, — 
the  better  for  being  what  they  calls  'gratis.'  " 

"Yet  I  have  heard  you  talk  of  the  pleasure  of  fighting, — 
not  for  pay,  Bunting,  but  for  your  king  and  country." 

"Augh!  and  that 's  when  I  wanted  to  cheat  the  poor  creturs 
at  Grassdale,  your  honor.  Don't  take  the  liberty  to  talk  stuff 
to  my  master." 

They  continued  thus  to  beguile  the  way  till  Walter  again 
sank  into  a  revery,  while  the  corporal,  who  began  more  and 
more  to  dislike  the  aspect  of  the  ground  they  had  entered  on, 
still  rode  by  his  side. 

The  road  was  heavy,  and  wound  down  the  long  hill  which 
had  stricken  so  much  dismay  into  the  corporal's  stout  heart 
on  the  previous  day,  when  he  had  beheld  its  commencement 
at  the  extremity  of  the  town,  where  but  for  him  they  had  not 
dined.  They  were  now  a  little  more  than  a  mile  from  the 
said  town.  The  whole  of  the  way  was  taken  up  by  this  hill, 
and  the  road,  very  different  from  the  smoothened  declivities 
of  the  present  day,  seemed  to  have  been  cut  down  the  very 
steepest  part  of  its  centre.  Loose  stones  and  deep  ruts  in- 
creased the  difficulty  of  the  descent,  and  it  was  with  a  slow 
pace  and  a  guarded  rein  that  both  our  travellers  now  continued 
their  journey.  On  the  left  side  of  the  road  was  a  thick  and 
lofty  hedge;  to  the  right  a  wild,  bare,  savage  heath  sloped 
downward,  and  just  afforded  a  glimpse  of  the  spires  and 
chimneys  of  the  town,  at  which  the  corpoi-al  was  already 
supping  in  idea.  That  incomparable  personage  was,  how- 
ever, abruptly  recalled  to  the  present  instant  by  a  most  vio- 
lent stumble  on  the  part  of  his  hard-mouthed,  Koman-nosed 


174  EUGENE   ARAM. 

horse.  The  horse  was  all  but  down,  and  the  corporal  all  but 
over. 

"D — n  it,"  said  the  corporal,  slowly  recovering  his  per- 
pendicularity; "and  the  way  to  Lunnon  was  as  smooth  as  a 
bowling-green !  " 

Ere  this  rueful  exclamation  was  well  out  of  the  corporal's 
mouth,  a  bullet  whizzed  past  him  from  the  hedge.  It  went 
so  close  to  his  ear  that  but  for  that  lucky  stumble,  Jacob 
Bunting  had  been  as  the  grass  of  the  field,  which  flourisheth 
one  moment  and  is  cut  down  the  next. 

Startled  by  the  sound,  the  corporal's  horse  made  off  full 
tear  down  the  hill,  and  carried  him  several  paces  beyond  his 
master  ere  he  had  power  to  stop  its  career.  But  Walter, 
reining  up  his  better-managed  steed,  looked  round  for  the 
enemy, —  nor  looked  in  vain. 

Three  men  started  from  the  hedge  with  a  simultaneous 
shout.  Walter  fired,  but  without  effect;  ere  he  could  lay 
hand  on  the  second  pistol  his  bridle  was  seized,  and  a  violent 
blow  from  a  long  double-handed  bludgeon  brought  him  to 
the  ground. 


BOOK    III. 


O.  Aiiinj  fid\L(TTa  y'  i}  Sia<pde[.pov<r6,  lie. 

M.  Aeti'Tj  "yap  i]  deb^,  dW  S/xus,  Idffifios' 

0.  Mavlai  re — 

M.  ^avTacTfidroov  5^  rdde  voaeh  iroluiv  inr6  ; 

.— 'Op^o-T.  398-407. 

O.  Mightiest  indeed  is  the  grief  consuming  me. 

M.  Dreadful  is  the  Divinity,  but  still  placable. 

O.  The  Furies  also  — 

M.  Urged  by  what  apparitions  do  you  rave  thus  ■? 


CHAPTER  I. 

FRAUD     AND     VIOLENCE     ENTER     EVEN      GRASSDALE. PETEr's 

NEWS. THE    lovers'    WALK. THE    REAPPEARANCE. 

Auf.     Whence  comest  thou  '     What  wouldest  thou  '  —  Coriolanus. 

One  evening  Aram  and  Madeline  were  passing  through  the 
village  on  their  accustomed  walk,  when  Peter  Dealtry  sallied 
forth  from  The  Spotted  Dog,  and  hurried  up  to  the  lovers 
with  a  countenance  full  of  importance,  and  a  little  ruffled  by 
fear. 

"Oh,  sir,  sir  (miss,  your  servant!),  have  you  heard  the 
news  ?  Two  houses  at  Checkington  [a  small  town  some  miles 
distant  from  Grassdale]  were  forcibly  entered  last  night, — 
robbed,  your  honor,  robbed!  Squire  Tibson  was  tied  to  his 
bed,  his  bureau  rifled,  himself  shockingly  confused  on  the 
head,  and  the  maid-servant,  Sally, —  her  sister  lived  with  me; 
a  very  good  girl, — was  locked  up  in  the  cupboard.  As  to  the 
other  house,  they  carried  off  all  the  plate.     There  were  no  less 


176  EUGEXE   ARAM. 

than  four  men,  all  masked,  your  honor,  and  armed  with  pis- 
tols. What  if  they  should  come  here  ?  Such  a  thing  was 
never  heard  of  before  in  these  parts.  But,  sir, —  but,  miss, 
—  do  not  be  afraid,  do  not  ye,  now;  for  I  may  say  with  the 
Psalmist, — 

"  '  For  wicked  men  shall  drink  the  dregs 
Which  they  in  wrath  shall  wring ; 
For  /  will  lift  my  voice  and  make 
Them  flee  while  I  do  sing.'  " 

"You  could  not  find  a  more  effectual  method  of  putting 
them  to  flight,  Peter,"  said  Madeline,  smiling;  "but  go  and 
talk  to  my  father.  I  know  we  have  a  whole  magazine  of  blun- 
derbusses and  guns  at  home :  they  may  be  useful  now.  But 
you  are  well  provided  in  case  of  attack.  Have  you  not  the 
corporal's  famous  cat,  Jacobina  ?  —  surely  a  match  for  fifty 
robbers !  " 

"  Ay,  miss ;  on  the  principle  of  set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief, 
perhaps  she  may  be.  But,  really,  it  is  no  jesting  matter.  I 
don't  say  as  how  I  am  timbersome ;  but  though  flesh  is  grass, 
I  does  not  wish  to  be  cut  down  afore  my  time.  Ah!  Mr. 
Aram,  your  house  is  very  lonesome  like ;  it  is  out  of  reach  of 
all  your  neighbors.  Had  n't  you  better,  sir,  take  up  your 
lodgings  at  the  squire's  for  the  present  ? " 

Madeline  pressed  Aram's  arm,  and  looked  up  fearfully  in 
his  face.  "Why,  my  good  friend,"  said  he  to  Dealtry,  "rob- 
bers will  have  little  to  gain  in  my  house,  unless  they  are 
given  to  learned  pursuits.  It  would  be  something  new, 
Peter,  to  see  a  gang  of  housebreakers  making  off  with  a  tel- 
escope, or  a  pair  of  globes,  or  a  great  folio  covered  with  dust.'' 

"Ay,  your  honor;  but  they  may  be  the  more  savage  for 
being  disappointed." 

"Well,  well,  Peter,  we  will  see,"  replied  Aram,  impatiently; 
"meanwhile  we  may  meet  you  again  at  the  Hall.  Good  even- 
ing for  the  present." 

"Do,  dearest  Eugene,  do,  for  Heaven's  sake!"  said  Made^ 
line,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  as,  turning  from  Dealtry,  they 
directed  their  steps  towards  the  quiet  valley,   at  the  end  of 


EUGENE   ARAM.  177 

which  the  student's  house  was  situated,  and  which  was  now 
more  than  ever  Madeline's  favorite  walk.  "Do,  dearest 
Eugene,  come  up  to  the  manor-house  till  these  wretches  are 
apprehended.  Consider  how  open  your  house  is  to  attack; 
and  surely  there  can  be  no  necessity  to  remain  in  it  now." 

Aram's  calm  brow  darkened  for  a  moment.  "  What,  dear- 
est! "  said  he,  "can  you  be  affected  by  the  foolish  fears  of  yon 
dotard  ?  How  do  we  know  as  yet  whether  this  improbable 
story  have  any  foundation  in  truth  ?  At  all  events,  it  is  evi- 
dently exaggerated.  Perhaps  an  invasion  of  the  poultry-yard, 
in  which  some  hungry  fox  was  the  real  offender,  may  be  the 
true  origin  of  this  terrible  tale.  Nay,  love,  nay,  do  not  look 
thus  reproachfully;  it  will  be  time  enough  for  us,  when  we 
have  sifted  the  grounds  of  alarm,  to  take  our  precautions; 
meanwhile,  do  not  blame  me  if  in  your  presence  I  cannot  ad- 
mit fear.  Oh,  Madeline,  dear,  dear  Madeline,  could  you  guess, 
could  you  dream,  how  different  life  has  become  to  me  since 
I  knew  you!  Formerly,  I  will  frankly  own  to  you  that  dark 
and  boding  apprehensions  were  wont  to  lie  heavy  at  my  heart; 
the  cloud  was  more  familiar  to  me  than  sunshine.  But  now 
I  have  grown  a  child,  and  can  see  around  me  nothing  but 
hope;  my  life  was  winter, —  your  love  has  breathed  it  into 
spring." 

"  And  yet,  Eugene,  yet  —  " 

"  Yet  what,  my  Madeline  ?  " 

"There  are  still  moments  when  I  have  no  power  over  your 
thoughts, —  moments  when  you  break  away  from  me  ;  when 
you  mutter  to  yourself  feelings  in  which  I  have  no  share, 
and  which  seem  to  steal  the  consciousness  from  your  eye  and 
the  color  from  your  lip." 

"Ah,  indeed!"  said  Aram,  quickly.  "What!  you  watch 
me  so  closely  ?  " 

"  Can  you  wonder  that  I  do  ?  "  said  Madeline,  with  an  ear- 
nest tenderness  in  her  voice. 

"You  must  not,  then,  you  must  not,"  returned  her  lover, 
almost  fiercely ;  "  I  cannot  bear  too  nice  and  sudden  a  scrutiny. 
Consider  how  long  I  have  clung  to  a  stern  and  solitary  inde- 
pendence of  thought,  which  allows  no  watch,  and  forbids  ac- 

12 


178  EUGENE   ARAM. 

count  of  itself  to  any  one.  Leave  it  to  time  and  your  love  to 
win  their  inevitable  way.  Ask  not  too  much  from  me  now. 
And  mark,  mark,  I  pray  you,  whenever,  in  spite  of  myself, 
these  moods  you  refer  to  darken  over  me,  heed  not,  listen  not. 
Leave  me;  solitude  is  their  only  cure !  Promise  me  this,  love, 
promise !  " 

"  It  is  a  harsh  request,  Eugene,  and  I  do  not  think  I  will 
grant  you  so  complete  a  monopoly  of  thought, "  answered  Mad- 
eline, playfully,  yet  half  in  earnest. 

"Madeline,"  said  Aram,  with  a  deep  solemnity  of  manner, 
"I  ask  a  request  on  which  my  very  love  for  you  depends. 
From  the  depths  of  my  soul,  I  implore  you  to  grant  it, — yea, 
to  the  very  letter." 

"  Why,  why,  this  is  —  "  began  Madeline ;  when,  encounter- 
ing the  full,  the  dark,  the  inscrutable  gaze  of  her  strange 
lover,  she  broke  off  in  a  sudden  fear  which  she  could  not  an- 
alyze, and  only  added,  in  a  low  and  subdued  voice,  "  I  promise 
to  obey  you." 

As  if  a  weight  were  lifted  from  his  heart,  Aram  now  bright- 
ened at  once  into  himself  in  his  happiest  mood.  He  poured 
forth  a  torrent  of  grateful  confidence,  of  buoyant  love,  that 
soon  swept  from  the  remembance  of  the  blushing  and  en- 
chanted Madeline  the  momentary  fear,  the  sudden  chillness, 
which  his  look  had  involuntarily  stricken  into  her  mind. 
And  as  they  now  wound  along  the  most  lonely  part  of  that 
wild  valley,  his  arm  twined  round  her  waist  and  his  low  but 
silver  voice  giving  magic  to  the  very  air  she  breathed,  she 
felt,  perhaps,  a  more  entire  and  unruffled  sentiment  of  pres- 
ent, and  a  more  credulous  persuasion  of  future,  happiness 
than  she  had  ever  experienced  before.  And  Aram  himself 
dwelt  with  a  more  lively  and  detailed  fulness  than  he  was 
wont  on  the  prospects  they  were  to  share,  and  the  security 
and  peace  which  retirement  would  bestow  upon  their  life. 

"Shall  it  not,"  he  said,  "shall  it  not  be  that  we  shall  look 
from  our  retreat  upon  the  shifting  passions  and  the  holloAV 
loves  of  tlie  distant  world  ?  We  can  have  no  petty  object, 
no  vain  allurement,  to  distract  the  unity  of  our  affection;  we 
must  be  all  in  all  to  each  other :  for  what  else  can  there  be  to 


EUGENE   ARAM.  179 

engross  our  thoughts  and  occupy  our  feelings  here?  If,  my 
beautiful  love,  you  have  selected  one  whom  the  world  might 
deem  a  strange  choice  for  youth  and  loveliness  like  yours, 
you  have  at  least  selected  one  who  can  have  no  idol  but  your- 
self. The  poets  tell  you,  and  rightly,  that  solitude  is  the  fit 
sphere  for  love;  but  how  few  are  the  lovers  whom  solitude 
does  not  fatigue!  They  rush  into  retirement  with  souls  un- 
prepared for  its  stern  joys  and  its  unvarying  tranquillity; 
they  weary  of  each  other,  because  the  solitude  itself  to  which 
they  fled  palls  upon  and  oppresses  them.  But  to  me,  the  free- 
dom which  low  minds  call  obscurity  is  the  aliment  of  life.  I 
do  not  enter  the  temples  of  Nature  as  a  stranger,  but  the 
priest;  nothing  can  ever  tire  me  of  the  lone  and  august  altars 
on  which  I  sacrificed  my  youth.  And  now,  what  Nature, 
what  Wisdom  once  were  to  me  —  no,  no,  more,  immeasurably 
more  than  these  —  you  are !  Oh,  Madeline,  methinks  there  is 
nothing  under  heaven  like  the  feeling  which  puts  us  apart 
from  all  that  agitates  and  fevers  and  degrades  the  herd  of 
men;  which  grants  us  to  control  the  tenor  of  our  future  life, 
because  it  annihilates  our  dependence  upon  others ;  and  while 
the  rest  of  earth  are  hurried  on,  blind  and  unconscious,  by 
the  hand  of  Fate,  leaves  us  the  sole  lords  of  our  destiny,  and 
able,  from  the  Past,  which  we  have  governed,  to  become  the 
Prophets  of  our  Future !  " 

At  this  moment  Madeline  uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  clung 
trembling  to  Aram's  arm.  Amazed,  and  aroused  from  his  en- 
thusiasm, he  looked  up,  and  on  seeing  the  cause  of  her  alarm, 
seemed  himself  transfixed,  as  by  a  sudden  terror,  to  the  earth. 

But  a  few  paces  distant,  standing  amidst  the  long  and  rank 
fern  that  grew  on  either  side  of  their  path,  qiiite  motionless, 
and  looking  on  the  pair  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  stood  the  om- 
inous stranger  whom  the  second  chapter  of  our  first  book 
introduced  to  the  reader. 

For  one  instant  Aram  seemed  utterly  appalled  and  over- 
come ;  his  cheek  grew  the  color  of  death ;  and  Madeline  felt 
his  heart  beat  with  a  loud,  a  fearful  force  beneath  the  breast 
to  which  she  clung.  But  his  was  not  the  nature  any  earthly 
dread  could  long  daunt.     He  whispered  to  Madeline  to  come 


180  EUGENE   ARAM. 

on;  and  slowly,  and  with  his  usual  firm  but  gliding  step, 
continued  his  way. 

"Good  evening,  Eugene  Aram,"  said  the  stranger;  and  as 
lie  spoke,  he  touched  his  hat  slightly  to  Madeline. 

"I  thank  you,"  replied  the  student,  in  a  calm  voice.  "Do 
you  want  aught  with  me  ?  " 

"Humph!  yes,  if  it  so  please  you." 

"Pardon  me,  dear  Madeline,"  said  Aram,  softly,  and  dis- 
engaging himself  from  her,    "but  for  one  moment." 

He  advanced  to  the  stranger;  and  Madeline  could  not  but 
note  that,  as  Aram  accosted  him,  his  brow  fell,  and  his  man- 
ner seemed  violent  and  agitated :  but  she  could  not  hear  the 
words  of  either,  nor  did  the  conference  last  above  a  minute. 
The  stranger  bowed,  and  turning  away,  soon  vanished  among 
the  shrubs.     Aram  regained  the  side  of  his  mistress. 

"  Who, "  cried  she,  eagerly,  "  is  that  fearful  man  ?  What  is 
his  business  ?     What  his  name  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  man  whom  I  knew  well  some  fourteen  years  ago, " 
replied  Aram,  coldly,  and  with  ease;  "I  did  not  then  lead 
quite  so  lonely  a  life,  and  we  were  thrown  much  together. 
Since  that  time  he  has  been  in  unfortunate  circumstances, — 
rejoined  the  army  (lie  was  in  early  life  a  soldier,  and  had 
been  disbanded),  entered  into  business,  and  failed;  in  short, 
he  has  partaken  of  those  vicissitudes  inseparable  from  the  life 
of  one  driven  to  seek  the  world.  When  he  travelled  this  road 
some  months  ago,  he  accidentally  heard  of  my  residence  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  naturally  sought  me.  Poor  as  I  am,  I 
was  of  some  assistance  to  him.  His  route  brings  him  hither 
again,  and  he  again  seeks  me:  I  suppose,  too,  that  I  must 
again  aid  him." 

"  And  is  that  indeed  all  ?  "  said  Madeline,  breathing  more 
freely.  "Well,  poor  man,  if  he  be  your  friend,  he  must  be 
inoffensive, — I  have  done  him  wrong.  And  does  he  want 
money?  I  have  some  to  give  him,  —  here,  Eugene!"  And 
the  simple-hearted  girl  put  her  purse  into  Aram's  hand. 

"No,  dearest,"  said  he,  shrinking  back,  "no,  we  shall  not 
require  your  contribution;  I  can  easily  spare  him  enough  for 
the  present.     But  let  us  turn  back,  it  grows  chill." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  181 

"And  why  did  he  leave  us,  Eugene  ?" 

"Because  I  desired  him  to  visit  me  at  home  an  hour  hence." 

"An  hour!  then  you  will  not  sup  with  us  to-night  ?" 

"No,  not  this  night,  dearest." 

The  conversation  now  ceased ;  Madeline  in  vain  endeavored 
to  renew  it.  Aram,  though  without  relapsing  into  one  of  his 
frequent  reveries,  answered  her  only  in  monosyllables.  They 
arrived  at  the  manor-house,  and  Aram  at  the  garden-gate  took 
leave  of  her  for  the  night,  and  hastened  backward  towards  his 
home.  Madeline,  after  watching  his  form  through  the  deep- 
ening shadows  until  it  disappeared,  entered  the  house  with  a 
listless  step;  a  nameless  and  thrilling  presentiment  crept  to 
her  heart,  and  she  could  have  sat  down  and  wept,  though 
without  a  cause. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE   INTERVIEW    BETWEEN    ARAM    AND    THE    STRANGER. 

The  spirits  I  have  raised  abandon  me ; 

The  spells  which  I  have  studied  baffle  me.  —  Manfred. 

Meanwhile  Aram  strode  rapidly  through  the  village,  and 
not  till  he  had  regained  the  solitary  valley  did  he  relax  his 
step. 

The  evening  had  already  deepened  into  night.  Along  the 
sere  and  melancholy  woods  the  autumnal  winds  crept  with  a 
lowly  but  gathering  moan.  Where  the  water  held  its  course, 
a  damp  and  ghostly  mist  clogged  the  air;  but  the  skies  were 
calm,  and  checkered  only  by  a  few  clouds  that  swept  in  long, 
white,  spectral  streaks  over  the  solemn  stars.  iSTow  and  then 
the  bat  wheeled  swiftly  round,  almost  touching  the  figure  of 
the  student  as  he  walked  musingly  onward.  And  the  owl,^ 
that  before  the  month  waned  many  days  would  be  seen  no 
more  in  that  region,  came  heavily  from  the  trees  like  a  guilty 

^  That  species  called  the  short-eared  owl. 


182  EUGENE   ARAM. 

thought  that  deserts  its  shade.  It  was  one  of  those  nights, 
half  dim,  half  glorious,  which  mark  the  early  decline  of  the 
year.  Nature  seemed  restless  and  instinct  with  change;  there 
were  those  signs  in  the  atmosphere  which  leave  the  most 
experienced  in  doubt  whether  the  morning  may  rise  in  storm 
or  sunshine.  And  in  this  particular  period,  the  skyey  influ- 
ences seem  to  tincture  the  animal  life  with  their  own  myste- 
rious and  wayward  spirit  of  change.  The  birds  desert  their 
summer  haunts;  an  unaccountable  disquietude  pervades  the 
brute  creation;  even  men  in  this  unsettled  season  have  con- 
sidered themselves,  more  than  at  others,  stirred  by  the  motion 
and  whisperings  of  their  genius ;  and  every  creature  that  flows 
upon  the  tide  of  the  Universal  Life  of  Things  feels  upon  the 
ruffled  surface  the  mighty  and  solemn  change  which  is  at  work 
within  its  depths. 

And  now  Aram  had  nearly  threaded  the  valley,  and  his  own 
abode  became  visible  on  the  opening  plain,  when  the  stranger 
emerged  from  the  trees  to  the  right,  and  suddenly  stood  before 
the  student.  "I  tarried  for  you  here,  Aram,"  said  he,  "in- 
stead of  seeking  you  at  home  at  the  time  you  fixed,  for  there 
are  certain  private  reasons  which  make  it  prudent  I  should 
keep  as  much  as  possible  among  the  owls ;  and  it  was  there- 
fore safer,  if  not  more  pleasant,  to  lie  here  amidst  the  fern 
than  to  make  myself  merry  in  the  village  yonder." 

"And  what,"  said  Aram,  "again  brings  you  hither?  Did 
you  not  say,  when  you  visited  me  some  months  since,  that 
you  were  about  to  settle  in  a  different  part  of  the  country, 
with  a  relation  ?  " 

"And  so  I  intended;  but  Fate,  as  you  would  say,  or  the 
devil,  as  I  should,  ordered  it  otherwise.  I  had  not  long  left 
you  when  I  fell  in  with  some  old  friends,  —  bold  spirits  and 
true,  the  brave  outlaws  of  the  road  and  the  field.  Shall  I 
have  any  shame  in  confessing  that  I  preferred  their  society  — 
a  society  not  unfamiliar  to  me  —  to  the  dull  and  solitary  life 
that  I  might  have  led  in  tending  my  old  bedridden  relation  in 
Wales,  who,  after  all,  may  live  these  twenty  years,  and  at 
the  end  can  scarcely  leave  me  enough  for  a  week's  ill-luck  at 
the  hazard-table  ?    In  a  word,  I  joined  my  gallant  friends  and 


EUGENE   ARAM.  183 

intrusted  myself  to  their  guidance.  Since  then,  we  have 
cruised  around  tlie  country,  regaled  ourselves  cheerily,  fright- 
ened the  timid,  silenced  the  fractious,  and  by  the  help  of 
your  fate,  or  my  devil,  have  found  ourselves,  by  accident, 
brought  to  exhibit  our  valor  in  this  very  district,  honored  by 
the  dwelling-place  of  my  learned  friend  Eugene  Aram." 

"Trifle  not  with  me,  Houseman,"  said  Aram,  sternly;  "I 
scarcely  yet  understand  you.  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that 
yourself  and  the  lawless  associates  you  say  you  have  joined, 
are  lying  out  now  for  plunder  in  these  parts?" 

"  You  say  it.  Perhaps  you  heard  of  our  exploits  last  night, 
some  four  miles  hence  ?  " 

"  Ha !  was  that  villany  yours  ?  " 

"  Villany !  "  repeated  Houseman,  in  a  tone  of  sullen  offence. 
"Come,  Master  Aram,  these  words  must  not  pass  between 
you  and  me,  friends  of  such  date  and  on  such  a  footing," 

"Talk  not  of  the  past,"  replied  Aram,  with  a  livid  lip,  "and 
call  not  those  whom  Destiny  once,  in  despite  of  Nature,  drove 
down  her  dark  tide  in  a  momentary  companionship,  by  the 
name  of  friends.  Friends  we  are  not;  but  while  we  live  there 
is  a  tie  betAveen  us  stronger  than  that  of  friendship." 

"You  speak  truth  and  wisdom,"  said  Houseman,  sneeringly; 
"for  my  part,  I  care  not  what  you  call  us, —  friends  or  foes." 

"Foes,  foes !"  exclaimed  Aram,  abruptly;  "not  that.  Has 
life  no  medium  in  its  ties?  Pooh,  pooh!  not  foes;  we  may 
not  be  foes  to  each  other." 

"It  were  foolish,  at  least  at  present,"  said  Houseman, 
carelessly. 

"Look  you,  Houseman,"  continued  Aram,  drawing  his  com- 
rade from  the  path  into  a  wilder  part  of  the  scene ;  and  as  he 
spoke,  his  words  were  couched  in  a  more  low  and  inward  voice 
than  heretofore, —  "look  you,  I  cannot  live  and  have  my  life 
darkened  thus  by  your  presence.  Is  not  the  world  wide 
enough  for  us  both  ?  Why  haunt  each  other  ?  What  have 
you  to  gain  from  me  ?  Can  the  thoughts  that  my  sight  recalls 
to  you  be  brighter  or  more  peaceful  than  those  which  start 
upon  me  when  I  gaze  on  you  ?  Does  not  a  ghastly  air,  a 
charnel -breath,  hover  about  us  both  ?     Why  perversely  incur 


184  EUGENE  ARAM. 

a  torture  it  is  so  easy  to  avoid?  Leave  me,  leave  these  scenes. 
All  earth  spreads  before  you:  choose  your  pursuits  and  your 
resting-place  elsewhere,  but  grudge  me  not  this  little  spot." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  disturb  you,  Eugene  Aram,  but  I  must 
live;  and  in  order  to  live  I  must  obey  my  companions:  if  I 
deserted  them,  it  would  be  to  starve.  They  will  not  linger 
long  in  this  district, —  a  week,  it  may  be,  a  fortnight  at  most; 
then,  like  the  Indian  animal,  they  will  strip  the  leaves  and 
desert  the  tree.  In  a  word,  after  we  have  swept  the  country, 
we  are  gone." 

"  Houseman,  Houseman ! "  said  Aram,  passionately,  and 
frowning  till  his  brows  almost  hid  his  eyes, — but  that  part  of 
the  orb  which  they  did  not  hide  seemed  as  living  fire, —  "I 
now  implore,  but  I  can  threaten, —  beware!  Silence,  I  say!" 
and  he  stamped  his  foot  violently  on  the  ground,  as  he  saw 
Houseman  about  to  interrupt  him;  "listen  to  me  throughout. 
Speak  not  to  me  of  tarrying  here, — speak  not  of  days,  of 
weeks,  every  hour  of  which  would  sound  upon  my  ear  like  a 
death-knell.  Dream  not  of  a  sojourn  in  these  tranquil  shades 
upon  an  errand  of  dread  and  violence,  —  the  minions  of  the 
law  aroused  against  you,  girt  with  the  chances  of  apprehen- 
sion and  a  shameful  death  —  " 

"And  a  full  confession  of  my  past  sins,"  interrupted  House- 
man, laughing  wildly. 

"  Fiend,  devil ! "  cried  Aram,  grasping  his  comrade  by  the 
throat,  and  shaking  him  m'ith  a  vehemence  that  Houseman, 
though  a  man  of  great  strength  and  sinew,  impotently  at- 
tempted to  resist.  "Breathe  but  another  word  of  such  im- 
port; dare  to  menace  me  with  the  vengeance  of  such  a  thing 
as  thou, —  and  by  the  Heaven  above  us  I  will  lay  thee  dead 
at  my  feet !  " 

"Release  my  throat,  or  you  will  commit  murder,"  gasped 
Houseman,  with  difficulty,  and  growing  already  black  in  the 
face. 

Aram  suddenly  relinquished  his  gripe  and  walked  away  with 
a  hurried  step,  muttering  to  himself.  He  then  returned  to 
the  side  of  Houseman,  whose  flesh  still  quivered  either  with 
rage  or  fear,  and.  his  own  self-possession  completely  restored, 


EUGENE  ARAM.  185 

stood  gazing  upon  him  with  folded  arms  and  his  usual  deep 
and  passionless  composure  of  countenance;  and  Houseman, 
if  he  could  not  boldly  confront,  did  not  altogether  shrink 
from,  his  eye.  So  there  and  thus  they  stood,  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  each  other,  both  silent,  and  yet  with  something 
unutterably   fearful   in  their  silence. 

"Houseman,"  said  Aram  at  length,  in  a  calm  yet  a  hollow 
voice,  "it -may  be  that  I  was  wrong;  but  there  lives  no  man 
on  earth,  save  you,  who  could  thus  stir  my  blood, —  nor  you 
with  ease.  And  know,  when  you  menace  me,  that  it  is  not 
your  menace  that  subdues  or  shakes  my  spirit;  but  that  which 
robs  my  veins  of  their  even  tenor  is  that  you  should  deem 
your  menace  could  have  such  power,  or  that  you  —  that  any 
man  —  should  arrogate  to  himself  the  thought  that  he  could, 
by  the  prospect  of  whatsoever  danger,  humble  the  soul  and 
curb  the  will  of  Eugene  Aram.  And  now  I  am  calm;  say 
what  you  will,  I  cannot  be  vexed  again." 

"I  have  done,"  replied  Houseman,  coldly.  "I  have  noth- 
ing to  say;  farewell!  "  and  he  moved  away  among  the  trees. 

"Stay,"  cried  Aram,  in  some  agitation,  "stay;  we  must  not 
part  thus.  Look  you,  Houseman,  you  say  you  would  starve 
should  you  leave  your  present  associates.  That  may  not  be : 
quit  them  this  night,  this  moment;  leave  the  neighborhood, 
and  the  little  in  my  power  is  at  your  will." 

"As  to  that,"  said  Houseman,  dryly,  "what  is  in  your 
power  is,  I  fear  me,  so  little  as  not  to  counterbalance  the  ad- 
vantages I  should  lose  in  quitting  my  companions.  I  expect 
to  net  some  three  hundreds  before  I  leave  these  parts." 

"Some  three  hundreds!"  repeated  Aram,  recoiling;  "that 
were  indeed  beyond  me.  I  told  you  when  we  last  met 
that  it  is  only  from  an  annual  payment  I  draw  the  means  of 
subsistence." 

"I  remember  it.  I  do  not  ask  you  for  money,  Eugene  Aram; 
these  hands  can  maintain  me,"  replied  Houseman,  smiling 
grimly.  "  I  told  you  at  once  the  sum  I  expected  to  receive 
somewhere,  in  order  to  prove  that  you  need  not  vex  your  be- 
nevolent heart  to  afford  me  relief.  I  knew  well  the  sum  I 
named  was  out  of  your  power, —  unless,  indeed,  it  be  part  of 


186  EUGENE  ARAM. 

the  marriage  portion  you  are  about  to  receive  with  your  bride. 
Fie,  Aram!  wliat  secrets  from  your  old  friend!  You  see  I 
pick  up  tlie  news  of  tlie  place  without  your  confidence." 

Again  Aram's  face  worked  and  his  lip  quivered;  but  he 
conquered  his  passion  with  a  surprising  self-command,  and 
answered  mildly, — 

"I  do  not  know,  Houseman,  whether  I  shall  receive  any 
marriage  portion  whatsoever;  if  I  do,  I  am  willing  to  make 
some  arrangement  by  which  I  could  engage  you  to  molest  me 
no  more.  But  it  yet  wants  several  days  to  my  marriage: 
quit  the  neighborhood  now,  and  a  month  hence  let  us  meet 
again.  Whatever  at  that  time  may  be  my  resources,  you 
shall  frankly  know  them." 

"It  cannot  be,"  said  Houseman.  "I  quit  not  these  districts 
without  a  certain  sum,  not  in  hope,  but  possession.  But 
why  interfere  with  me?  I  seek  not  my  hoards  in  your  coffer. 
Why  so  anxious  that  I  should  not  breathe  the  same  air  as 
yourself  ?  " 

"It  matters  not,"  replied  Aram,  with  a  deep  and  ghastly 
voice;  "but  when  you  are  near  me,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  with 
the  dead:  it  is  a  spectre  that  I  would  exorcise  in  ridding  me 
of  your  presence.  Yet  this  is  not  what  I  now  speak  of.  You 
are  engaged,  according  to  your  own  lips,  in  lawless  and  mid- 
night schemes,  in  which  you  may  (and  the  tide  of  chances 
runs  towards  that  bourn)  be  seized  by  the  hand  of  Justice." 

"Ho!"  said  Houseman,  sullenly,  "and  was  it  not  for  say- 
ing that  you  feared  this,  and  its  probable  consequences,  that 
3'ou  well-nigh  stifled  me  but  now  ?  So  truth  may  be  said  one 
moment  with  impunity,  and  the  next  at  peril  of  life!  These 
are  the  subtleties  of  you  wise  schoolmen,  I  suppose.  Your 
Aristotles  and  your  Zenos,  your  Platos  and  your  Epicuruses, 
teach  you  notable  distinctions,  truly !  " 

"Peace!  "  said  Aram;  "are  we  at  all  times  ourselves  ?  Are 
the  passions  never  our  masters  ?  You  maddened  me  into 
anger.  Behold,  I  am  now  calm;  the  subjects  discussed  be- 
tween myself  and  you  are  of  life  and  death :  let  us  approach 
them  with  our  senses  collected  and  prepared.  What,  House- 
man,  are  you  bent  upon  your  own  destruction,   as  well  as 


EUGENE   ARAM.  187 

mine,  that  you  persevere  in  courses  which  must  end  in  a  death 
of  shame  ?  " 

"  What  else  can  I  do  ?  I  will  not  work,  and  I  cannot  live 
like  you  in  a  lone  wilderness  on  a  crust  of  bread.  Nor  is  my 
name,  like  yours,  mouthed  by  the  praise  of  honest  men, —  my 
character  is  marked;  those  who  once  welcomed  me  shun  me 
now.  I  have  no  resource  for  society  (for  /cannot  face  myself 
alone)  but  in  the  fellowship  of  men  like  myself,  whom  the 
world  has  thrust  from  its  pale.  I  have  no  resource  for  bread 
save  in  the  pursuits  that  are  branded  by  justice  and  accompa- 
nied with  snares  and  danger.    What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  " 

"Is  it  not  better,"  said  Aram,  "to  enjoy  peace  and  safety 
upon  a  small  but  certain  pittance  than  to  live  thus  from  hand 
to  mouth, —  vibrating  from  wealth  to  famine,  and  the  rope 
around  your  neck,  sleeping  and  awake  ?  Seek  your  relation, 
— in  that  quarter  you  yourself  said  your  character  was  not 
branded, —  live  with  him,  and  know  the  quiet  of  easy  days; 
and  I  promise  you  that  if  aught  be  in  my  power  to  make  your 
lot  more  suitable  to  your  wants,  so  long  as  you  lead  the  life 
of  honest  men  it  shall  be  freely  yours.  Is  not  this  better, 
Houseman,  than  a  short  and  sleepless  career  of  dread  ?  " 

"Aram,"  answered  Houseman,  "are  you,  in  truth,  calm 
enough  to  hear  me  speak  ?  I  warn  you  that  if  again  you  for- 
get yourself  and  lay  hands  on  me  —  " 

"Threaten  not,  threaten  not,"  interrupted  Aram,  "but  pro- 
ceed; all  within  me  is  now  still  and  cold  as  ice.  Proceed 
without  fear  or  scriiple." 

"  Be  it  so.  We  do  not  love  one  another :  you  have  affected 
contempt  for  me ;  and  I  —  I  —  no  matter  —  I  am  not  a  stone 
or  a  stick,  that  I  should  not  feel.  You  have  scorned  me,  you 
have  outraged  me,  you  have  not  assumed  towards  me  even  the 
decent  hypocrisies  of  prudence;  yet  now  you  would  ask  of  me 
the  conduct,  the  sympathy,  the  forbearance,  the  concession 
of  friendship.  You  wish  that  I  should  quit  these  scenes, 
where  to  my  judgment  a  certain  advantage  awaits  me,  solely 
that  I  may  lighten  your  breast  of  its  selfish  fears.  You  dread 
the  dangers  that  await  me  on  your  own  account.  And  in  my 
apprehension  you  forbode  your  own  doom.      You  ask  me  — 


188  EUGENE  ARAM. 

nay,  not  ask,  you  would  command,  you  would  awe  me  —  to 
sacrifice  my  will  and  wishes  in  order  to  soothe  your  anxieties 
and  strengthen  your  own  safety.  Mark  me,  Eugene  Aram,  I 
have  been  treated  as  a  tool,  and  I  will  not  be  governed  as  a 
friend.  I  will  not  stir  from  the  vicinity  of  your  home  till 
my  designs  be  fulfilled;  I  enjoy,  I  hug  myself  in  your  tor- 
ments. I  exult  in  the  terror  with  which  you  will  hear  of 
each  new  enterprise,  each  new  daring,  each  new  triumph  of 
myself  and  my  gallant  comrades.  And  now  I  am  avenged  for 
the  affront  you  put  upon  me." 

Though  Aram  trembled  with  suppressed  passions  from  limb 
to  limb,  his  voice  was  still  calm,  and  his  lip  even  wore  a  smile 
as  he  answered, — 

"I  was  prepared  for  this.  Houseman;  you  utter  nothing 
that  surprises  or  appals  me.  You  hate  me :  it  is  natural ;  men 
united  as  we  are,  rarely  look  on  each  other  with  a  friendly  or 
a  pitying  eye.  But,  Houseman,  I  know  you! — you  are  a 
man  of  vehement  passions,  but  interest  with  you  is  yet 
stronger  than  passion.  If  not,  our  conference  is  over.  Go, 
and  do  your  worst." 

"You  are  right,  most  learned  scholar;  I  can  fetter  the  tiger 
within,  in  his  deadliest  rage,  by  a  golden  chain." 

"  Well,  then,  Houseman,  it  is  not  your  interest  to  betray  me 
—  my  destruction  is  your  own." 

"I  grant  it;  but  if  I  am  apprehended,  and  to  be  hung  for 
robbery  ?  " 

"It  will  be  no  longer  an  object  to  you  to  care  for  my  safety. 
Assuredly  I  comprehend  this.  But  my  interest  induces  me  to 
wish  that  you  be  removed  from  the  peril  of  apprehension;  and 
your  interest  replies  that  if  you  can  obtain  equal  advantages 
in  security,  you  would  forego  advantages  accompanied  by 
peril.  Say  what  we  will,  wander  as  we  will,  it  is  to  this 
point  that  we  must  return  at  last." 

"Nothing  can  be  clearer;  and  were  you  a  rich  man,  Eugene 
Aram,  or  could  you  obtain  your  bride's  dowry  (no  doubt  a 
respectable  sum)  in  advance,  the  arrangement  might  at  once 
be  settled." 

Aram  gasped  for  breath  and,  as  usual  with  him  in  emotion, 


EUGENE  ARAM.  189 

made  several  strides,  muttering  rapidly  and  indistinctly  to 
himself,  and  then  returned. 

"  Even  were  this  possible,  it  would  be  but  a  short  reprieve. 
I  could  not  trust  you;  the  sum  would  be  spent,  and  I  again  in 
the  state  to  which  you  have  compelled  me  now,  but  without 
the  means  again  to  relieve  myself.  No,  no;  if  the  blow  must 
fall,  be  it  so  one  day  as  another." 

"As  you  will,"  said  Houseman;  "but  — "  Just  at  that 
moment  a  long  shrill  whistle  sounded  below,  as  from  the 
water.  Houseman  paused  abruptly.  "  That  signal  is  from  my 
comrades;  I  must  away.     Hark,  again!     Farewell,  Aram!" 

"  Farewell,  if  it  must  be  so, "  said  Aram,  in  a  tone  of  dogged 
sullenness;  "but  to-morrow,  should  you  know  of  any  means 
by  which  I  could  feel  secure,  beyond  the  security  of  your  own 
word,  from  your  future  molestation,  I  might —    Yet  how  ?" 

"To-morrow,"  said  Houseman,  "I  cannot  ansAver  for  my- 
self; it  is  not  always  that  I  can  leave  my  comrades,  —  a  nat- 
ural jealousy  makes  them  suspicious  of  the  absence  of  their 
friends.  Yet  hold:  the  night  after  to-morrow,  the  Sabbath 
night,  most  virtuous  Aram,  lean  meet  you;  but  not  here, — 
some  miles  hence.  You  know  the  foot  of  the  Devil's  Crag, 
by  the  waterfall :  it  is  a  spot  quiet  and  shaded  enough  in  all 
conscience  for  our  interview;  and  I  will  tell  you  a  secret  I 
would  trust  no  other  man  (hark,  again!), —  it  is  close  by  our 
present  lurking-place.  Meet  me  there.  It  would,  indeed,  be 
pleasanter  to  hold  our  conference  under  shelter,  but  just  at 
present  I  would  rather  not  trust  myself  beneath  any  honest 
man's  roof  in  this  neighborhood.  Adieu!  on  Sunday  night, 
one  hour  before  midnight." 

The  robber,  for  such  then  he  was,  waved  his  hand  and  hur- 
ried away  in  the  direction  from  which  the  signal  seemed  to 
come. 

Aram  gazed  after  him,  but  with  vacant  eyes,  and  remained 
for  several  minutes  rooted  to  the  spot,  as  if  the  very  life  had 
left  him. 

"The  Sabbath  night!"  said  he,  at  length,  moving  slowly 
on;  "and  I  must  spin  forth  my  existence  in  trouble  and  fear 
till  then.     Till  then!     What  remedy  can  I  then  invent?     It 


190  EUGENE    ARAM. 

is  clear  that  I  can  have  no  dependence  on  his  word,  if  won; 
and  I  have  not  even  aught  wherewith  to  buy  it.  But  courage, 
courage,  my  heart,  and  work  thou,  my  busy  brain, —  ye  have 
never  failed  me  yet!  " 


CHAPTER    III. 

FRESH    ALARM    IN    THE    VILLAGE. —  LESTEr's  VISIT   TO  ARAM. 

A    TRAIT    OF    DELICATE    KINDNESS     IN     THE     STUDENT. MAD- 
ELINE.  HER    PRONENESS    TO    CONFIDE. THE    CONVERSATION 

BETWEEN     LESTER    AND    ARAM, THE    PERSONS     BY    WHOM    IT 

IS    INTERRUPTED. 

Not  my  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 

Of  the  wide  world,  dreaming  on  things  to  come, 

Can  yet  the  lease  of  my  true  love  control. 

Shakspeare  :  Sonnets. 

Commend  me  to  their  loves,  and,  I  am  proud,  say,  that  my  occasions  have 
found  time  to  use  'em  toward  a  supply  of  money  ;  let  the  request  be  fifty 
talents.  —  Timon  of  Athens. 

The  next  morning  the  whole  village  was  alive  and  bustling 
with  terror  and  consternation.  Another,  and  a  yet  more 
daring,  robbery  had  been  committed  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
the  police  of  the  county  town  had  been  summoned,  and  were 
now  busy  in  search  of  the  offenders.  Aram  had  been  early 
disturbed  by  the  oiBcious  anxiety  of  some  of  his  neighbors, 
and  it  wanted  yet  some  hours  of  noon  when  Lester  himself 
came  to  seek  and  consult  with  the  student. 

Aram  was  alone  in  his  large  and  gloomy  chamber,  sur- 
rounded, as  usual,  by  his  books,  but  not,  as  usual,  engaged  in 
their  contents.  With  his  face  leaning  on  his  hand,  and  his 
eyes  gazing  on  a  dull  fire  that  crept  heavily  upAvard  through 
the  damp  fuel,  he  sat  by  his  hearth,  listless,  but  wrapped  in 
thought. 

"Well,  my  friend,"  said  Lester,  displacing  the  books  from 


EUGKNP:   ARAM.  191 

one  of  the  chairs,  and  drawing  the  seat  near  the  student's, 
"you  have  ere  tliis  heard  the  news, — and,  indeed,  in  a  county 
so  quiet  as  ours,  tliese  outrages  appear  the  more  fearful  from 
their  being  so  unlooked  for.  We  must  set  a  guard  on  the  vil- 
lage, Aram,  and  you  must  leave  this  defenceless  hermitage  and 
come  down  to  us, —  not  for  your  own  sake,  but  consider  you 
will  be  an  additional  safeguard  to  Madeline.  You  will  lock 
up  the  house,  dismiss  your  poor  old  governante  to  her  friends 
in  the  village,  and  walk  back  with  me  at  once  to  the  Hall." 

Aram  turned  uneasily  in  his  chair.  "I  feel  your  kindness," 
said  he,  after  a  pause,  "but  I  cannot  accept  it;  Madeline  —  " 
He  stopped  short  at  that  name,  and  added,  in  an  altered  voice : 
"No,  I  will  be  one  of  the  watch,  Lester,  I  will  look  to  her  — 
to  your  —  safety;  but  I  cannot  sleep  under  another  roof.  I 
am  superstitious,  Lester, —  superstitious.  I  have  made  avow, 
—  a  foolish  one,  perhaps;  but  I  dare  not  break  it.  And  my 
vow  binds  me  not  to  pass  a  night,  save  on  indispensable  and 
urgent  necessity,   anywhere  but  in  my  own  home." 

"But  there  is  necessity." 

"My  conscience  says  not,"  said  Aram,  smiling.  "Peace, 
my  good  friend;  we  cannot  conquer  men's  foibles,  or  wrestle 
with  men's  scruples." 

Lester  in  vain  attempted  to  shake  Aram's  resolution  on  this 
head;  he  found  him  immovable,  and  gave  up  the  effort  in 
despair. 

"  Well, "  said  he,  "  at  all  events  we  hav  e  set  up  a  watch,  and 
can  spare  you  a  couple  of  defenders.  They  shall  reconnoitre 
in  the  neighborhood  of  your  house  if  you  persevere  in  your 
determination;  and  this  will  serve,  in  some  slight  measure, 
to  satisfy  poor  Madeline." 

"Be  it  so,"  replied  Aram;  "and  dear  Madeline  herself,  is 
she  so  alarmed  ?  " 

And  now,  in  spite  of  all  the  more  wearing  and  haggard 
thoughts  that  preyed  upon  his  breast,  and  the  dangers  by 
which  he  conceived  himself  beset,  the  student's  face,  as  he 
listened  with  eager  attention  to  every  word  that  Lester  uttered 
concerning  his  daughter,  testified  how  alive  he  yet  was  to  the 
least  incident  that  related  to  Madeline,  and  how  easily  her 


192  EUGENE    ARAM. 

innocent  and  peaceful  remembrance  co;il(l  allnre  him  from 
himself. 

"This  room,"  said  Lester,  looking  round,  "will  be,  I  con- 
clude, after  Madeline's  own  heart;  but  will  you  always  suffer 
her  here  ?  Students  do  not  sometimes  like  even  the  gentlest 
interruption. " 

"I  have  not  forgotten  that  Madeline's  comfort  requires  some 
more  cheerful  retreat  than  this,"  said  Aram,  with  a  melan- 
choly expression  of  countenance.  "Follow  me,  Lester:  I 
meant  this  for  a  little  surjorise  to  her.  But  Heaven  only 
knows  if  I  shall  ever  show  it  to  herself." 

"Why,  what  doubt  of  that  can  even  your  boding  temper 
indulge  ?  " 

"We  are  as  the  wanderers  in  the  desert,"  answered  Aram, 
"who  are  taught  wisely  to  distrust  their  own  senses:  that 
which  they  gaze  upon  as  the  waters  of  existence  is  often  but 
a  faithless  vapor  that  would  lure  them  to  destruction." 

In  thus  speaking,  he  had  traversed  the  room,  and  opening  a 
door,  showed  a  small  chamber  with  which  it  communicated, 
and  which  Aram  had  fitted  up  with  evident  and  not  ungrace- 
ful care.  Every  article  of  furniture  that  jVradeline  might  most 
fancy,  he  had  procured  from  the  neighboring  town.  And 
some  of  the  lighter  and  more  attractive  books  that  he  pos- 
sessed, were  ranged  around  on  shelves,  above  which  were 
vases,  intended  for  flowers;  the  window  opened  upon  a  little 
plot  that  had  been  lately  broken  up  into  a  small  garden,  and 
was  already  intersected  with  walks,  and  rich  with  shrubs. 

There  was  something  in  this  chamber  that  so  entirely  con- 
trasted the  one  it  adjoined,  something  so  light  and  cheerful 
and  even  gay  in  its  decoration  and  general  aspect,  that  Lester 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  delight  and  surprise.  And  indeed 
it  did  appear  to  him  touching  that  this  austere  scholar,  so 
wrapped  in  thought  and  so  inattentive  to  the  common  forms 
of  life,  should  have  manifested  so  much  of  tender  and  delicate 
consideration.  In  another  it  would  have  been  nothing;  but 
in  Aram  it  was  a  trait  that  brought  involuntary  tears  to  the 
eyes  of  the  good  Lester.  Aram  observed  them;  he  walked 
hastily  away  to  the  window,  and  sighed  heavily.     This  did 


EUGENE  ARAM.  193 

not  escape  his  friend's  notice,  and  after  commenting  on  the 
attractions  of  the  little  room,  Lester  said, — 

*'  You  seem  oppressed  in  spirits,  Eugene :  can  anything  have 
chanced  to  disturb  you, — beyond,  at  least,  these  alarms,  which 
are  enough  to  agitate  the  nerves  of  the  hardiest  of.  us  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Aram;  "I  had  no  sleep  last  night,  and  my  health 
is  easily  affected,  and  with  my  health  my  mind.  But  let  us 
go  to  Madeline;  the  sight  of  her  will  revive  me." 

They  then  strolled  down  to  the  manor-house,  and  met  by 
the  way  a  band  of  the  younger  heroes  of  the  village,  who  had 
volunteered  to  act  as  a  patrol,  and  who  were  now  marshalled 
by  Peter  Dealtry,  in  a  tit  of  heroic  enthusiasm. 

Although  it  was  broad  daylight,  and  consequently  there  was 
little  cause  of  immediate  alarm,  the  worthy  publican  carried 
on  his  shoulder  a  musket  on  full  cock;  and  each  moment  he 
kept  peeping  about,  as  if  not  only  every  bush,  but  every  blade 
of  grass,  contained  an  ambuscade  ready  to  spring  up  the  in- 
stant he  was  off  his  guard.  By  his  side  the  redoubted  Jaco- 
bina,  who  had  transferred  to  her  new  master  the  attachment 
she  had  originally  possessed  for  the  corporal,  trotted  peer- 
ingly  along,  her  tail  perpendicularly  cocked,  and  her  ears 
moving  to  and  fro  with  a  most  incomparable  air  of  vigilant 
sagacity.  The  cautious  Peter  every  now  and  then  checked 
her  ardor  as  she  was  about  to  quicken  her  step  and  enliven 
the  march  by  gambols  better  adapted  to  serener  times. 

"Soho,  Jacobina,  soho!  gently,  girl,  gently;  thou  little 
knowest  the  dangers  that  may  beset  thee.  Come  up,  my  good 
fellows,  come  to  The  Spotted  Dog, —  I  will  tap  a  barrel  on 
purpose  for  you;  and  we  will  settle  the  plan  of  defence  for 
the  night.     Jacobina,  come  in,  I  say;  come  in, — 

"  '  Lest,  like  a  lion,  they  thee  tear. 
And  rend  in  pieces  small, 
"While  there  is  none  to  succor  thee, 
And  rid  thee  out  of  thrall.' 

What  ho,  there!  Oh!  I  beg  your  honor's  pardon!  Your 
servant,  Mr.  Aram." 

13 


194  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"What,  patrolling  already  ?"  said  the  squire.  "Your  men 
will  be  tired  before  they  are  wanted;  reserve  their  ardor  for 
the  night." 

"  Oh,  your  honor,  I  have  only  been  beating  up  for  recruits ; 
and  we  are  going  to  consult  a  bit  at  home.  Ah!  what  a  pity 
the  corporal  is  n't  here ;  he  would  have  been  a  tower  of  strength 
unto  the  righteous.  But  howsomever,  I  do  my  best  to  supply 
his  place. — Jacobina,  child,  be  still. —  I  can't  say  as  I  knows 
the  musket-sarvice,  your  honor;  but  I  fancies  as  how  we  can 
do  it  extemporaneous -like  at  a  pinch." 

"A  bold  heart,  Peter,  is  the  best  preparation,"  said  the 
squire. 

"And,"  quoth  Peter,  quickly,  "what  saith  the  worshipful 
Mister  Sternhold,  in  the  forty -fifth  Psalm,  fourth  verse  ?  — 

"  'Go  forth  with  godly  speed,  in  meekness,  truth,  and  riglit. 

And  thy  right  hand  shall  thee  instruct  in  works  of  dreadful  might.' " 

Peter  quoted  these  verses,  especially  the  last,  with  a  trucu- 
lent frown  and  a  brandishing  of  the  musket  that  surprisingly 
encouraged  the  hearts  of  his  little  armament;  and  with  a  gen- 
eral murmur  of  enthusiasm  the  warlike  band  marched  off  to 
The  Spotted  Dog. 

Lester  and  his  companion  found  Madeline  and  Ellinor  stand- 
ing at  the  window  of  the  hall,  and  Madeline's  light  step  was 
the  first  that  sprang  forward  to  welcome  their  return;  even 
the  face  of  the  student  brightened  when  he  saw  the  kindling 
eye,  the  parted  lip,  the  buoyant  form,  from  which  the  pure 
and  innocent  gladness  she  felt  on  seeing  him  broke  forth. 

There  was  a  remarkable  tricsffulness  in  Madeline's  disposi- 
tion. Thoughtful  and  grave  as  she  was  by  nature,  she  was 
yet  ever  inclined  to  the  more  sanguine  colorings  of  life ;  she 
never  turned  to  the  future  with  fear,  —  a  placid  sentiment  of 
hope  slept  at  her  heart;  she  was  one  who  surrendered  herself 
with  a  fond  and  implicit  faith  to  the  guidance  of  all  she  loved, 
and  to  the  chances  of  life.  It  was  a  sweet  indolence  of  the 
mind  which  made  one  of  her  most  beautiful  traits  of  charac- 
ter: there  is  something  so  unselfish  in  tempers  reluctant  to 


EUGENE  ARAM.  196 

despond.  You  see  that  such  persons  are  not  occupied  with 
their  own  existence;  they  are  not  fretting  the  calm  of  the 
present  life  with  the  egotisms  of  care  and  conjecture  and  cal- 
culation; if  they  learn  anxiety,  it  is  for  another:  but  in  the 
heart  of  that  other  how  entire  is  their  trust! 

It  was  this  disposition  in  Madeline  which  perpetually 
charmed,  and  yet  perpetually  wrung,  the  soul  of  her  wild 
lover ;  and  as  she  now  delightedly  hung  upon  his  arm,  utter- 
ing her  joy  at  seeing  him  safe,  and  presently  forgetting  that 
there  ever  had  been  cause  for  alarm,  his  heart  was  filled  with 
the  most  gloomy  sense  of  horror  and  desolation.  "What," 
thought  he,  "  if  this  poor  unconscious  girl  could  dream  that 
at  this  moment  I  am  girded  with  peril  from  which  I  see  no 
ultimate  escape  ?  Delay  it  as  I  will,  it  seems  as  if  the  blow 
must  come  at  last.  What  if  she  could  think  how  fearful  is 
my  interest  in  these  outrages, — that  in  all  probability,  if 
their  authors  are  detected,  there  is  one  who  will  drag  me  into 
their  ruin;  that  1  am  given  over,  bound  and  blinded,  into  the 
hands  of  another;  and  that  other  a  man  steeled  to  mercy,  and 
withheld  from  my  destruction  by  a  thread, —  a  thread  that  a 
blow  on  himself  would  snap.  Great  God!  wherever  I  turn, 
I  see  despair.  And  she, —  she  clings  to  me;  and  beholding 
me,  thinks  the  whole  earth  is  filled  with  hope !  " 

While  these  thoughts  darkened  his  mind,  Madeline  drew 
him  onward  into  the  more  sequestered  walks  of  the  garden,  to 
show  him  some  flowers  she  had  transplanted.  And  when  an 
hour  afterwards  he  returned  to  the  Hall,  so  soothing  had  been 
the  influence  of  her  looks  and  words  upon  Aram  that  if  he 
had  not  forgotten  the  situation  in  which  he  stood,  he  had  at 
least  calmed  himself  to  regard  with  a  steady  eye  the  chances 
of  escape. 

The  meal  of  the  day  passed  as  cheerfully  as  usual;  and 
when  Aram  and  his  host  were  left  over  their  abstemious  po- 
tations, the  former  proposed  a  walk  before  the  evening  deep- 
ened. Lester  readily  consented,  and  they  sauntered  into  the 
fields.  The  squire  soon  perceived  that  something  was  on 
Aram's  mind,  of  which  he  felt  evident  embarrassment  in  rid- 
ding himself;  at  length  the  student  said,  rather  abruptly, — 


196  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"  My  clear  friend,  I  am  but  a  bad  beggar,  and  therefore  let 
me  get  over  my  request  as  expeditiously  as  possible.  You 
said  to  me  once  that  you  intended  bestowing  some  dowry  upon 
Madeline, —  a  dowry  I  would  and  could  willingly  dispense 
with;  but  should  you  of  that  sum  be  now  able  to  spare  me 
some  portion  as  a  loan,  should  you  have  some  tliree  hundred 
pounds  with  which  you  could  accommodate  me  —  " 

"Say  no  more,  Eugene,  say  no  more,"  interrupted  the 
squire ;  "  you  can  have  double  that  amount.  I  ought  to  have 
foreseen  that  your  preparations  for  your  approaching  mar- 
riage must  have  occasioned  you  some  inconvenience :  you  can 
have  six  hundred  pounds  from  me  to-morrow." 

Aram's  eyes  brightened.  "It  is  too  much,  too  much,  my 
generous  friend,"  said  he, —  "the  half  suffices;  but  —  but,  a 
debt  of  old  standing  presses  me  urgently,  and  to-morrow,  or 
rather  Monday  morning,  is  the  time  fixed  for  payment." 

"Consider  it  arranged,"  said  Lester,  putting  his  hand  on 
Aram's  arm;  and  then,  leaning  on  it  gently,  he  added,  "and 
now  that  we  are  on  this  subject,  let  me  tell  you  what  I  in- 
tended as  a  gift  to  you  and  my  dear  Madeline.  It  is  but 
small,  but  my  estates  are  rigidly  entailed  on  Walter,  and  of 
poor  value  in  themselves,  and  it  is  half  the  savings  of  many 
years." 

The  squire  then  named  a  sum  which,  however  small  it  may 
seem  to  our  reader,  was  not  considered  a  despicable  portion 
for  the  daughter  of  a  small  country  squire  at  that  day,  and 
was  in  reality  a  generous  sacrifice  for  one  whose  whole  in- 
come was  scarcely,  at  the  most,  seven  hundred  a  year.  The 
sum  mentioned  doubled  that  now  to  be  lent,  and  which  was 
of  course  a  part  of  it;  an  equal  portion  was  reserved  for 
Ellinor. 

"And  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  the  squire,  "you  must 
give  me  some  little  time  for  the  remainder;  for  not  thinking, 
some  months  ago,  it  would  be  so  soon  wanted,  I  laid  out 
eighteen  hundred  pounds  in  the  purchase  of  Winclose  farm, 
six  of  which  (the  remainder  of  your  share)  I  can  pay  off  at 
the  end  of  the  year:  the  other  twelve,  Ellinor's  portion,  will 
remain   a  mortgage  on  the  farm  itself.      And   between  us," 


EUGENE   ARAM.  197 

added  the  squire,  "  I  do  hope  that  I  need  be  in  no  hurry  re- 
specting her,  dear  girl.  When  Walter  returns,  I  trust  mat- 
ters may  be  arranged  in  a  manner  and  through  a  channel 
that  would  gratify  the  most  cherished  wish  of  my  heart.  I 
am  convinced  that  Ellinor  is  exactly  suited  to  him ;  and  un- 
less he  should  lose  his  senses  for  some  one  else  in  the  course 
of  his  travels,  I  trust  that  he  will  not  be  long  returned  before 
he  will  make  the  same  discovery.  I  think  of  writing  to  him 
very  shortly  after  your  marriage,  and  making  him  promise, 
at  all  events,  to  revisit  us  at  Christmas.  Ah!  Eugene,  we 
shall  be  a  happy  party  then,  I  trust.  And  be  assured  that  we 
shall  beat  up  your  quarters,  and  put  your  hospitality  and 
Madeline's  housewifery  to  the  test." 

Therewith  the  good  squire  ran  on  for  some  minutes  in  the 
warmth  of  his  heart,  dilating  on  the  fireside  prospects  before 
them,  and  rallying  the  student  on  those  secluded  habits  which 
he  promised  him  he  should  no  longer  indulge  with  impunity. 

"But  it  is  growing  dark,"  said  he,  awakening  from  the 
theme  which  had  carried  him  away,  "  and  by  this  time  Peter 
and  our  patrol  will  be  at  the  Hall;  I  told  them  to  look  up  in 
the  evening,  in  order  to  appoint  their  several  duties  and  sta- 
tions. Let  us  turn  back.  Indeed,  Aram,  I  can  assure  you  that 
I,  for  my  own  part,  have  some  strong  reasons  to  take  precau- 
tions against  any  attack;  for  besides  the  old  family  plate 
(though  that's  not  much),  I  have  —  you  know  the  bureau  in 
the  parlor  to  the  left  of  the  hall  ?  —  well,  I  have  in  that  bu- 
reau three  hundred  guineas,  which  I  have  not  as  yet  been  able 

to  take  to  safe  hands  at ,  and  which,  by  the  way,  will  be 

yours  to-morrow.  So  you  see  it  would  be  no  light  misfortune 
to  me  to  be  robbed." 

"Hist!  "  said  Aram,  stopping  short;  "I  think  I  heard  steps 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge." 

The  squire  listened,  but  heard  nothing;  the  senses  of  his 
companion  were,  however,  remarkably  acute,  more  especially 
that  of  hearing. 

"There  is  certainly  some  one, — nay,  I  catch  the  steps  of 
two  persons,"  whispered  he  to  Lester. 

"Let  us  come  round  the  hedge  by  the  gap  below." 


198  EUGENE   ARAM. 

They  both  quickened  their  pace ;  and  gaining  the  other  side 
of  the  hedge,  did  indeed  perceive  two  men,  in  carters'  frocks, 
strolling  on  towards  the  village. 

"They  are  strangers  too,"  said  the  squire,  suspiciously; 
"not  Grassdale  men.  Humph!  could  they  have  overheard  us, 
think  you  ?  " 

"  If  men  whose  business  it  is  to  overhear  their  neighbors, — 
yes ;  but  not  if  they  be  honest  men, "  answered  Aram,  in  one 
of  those  shrewd  remarks  which  he  often  uttered,  and  which 
seemed  almost  incompatible  with  the  tenor  of  those  quiet  and 
abstruse  pursuits  that  generally  deaden  the  mind  to  worldly 
wisdom. 

They  had  now  approached  the  strangers,  who,  however, 
appeared  mere  rustic  clowns,  and  who  pulled  off  their  hats 
with  the  wonted  obeisance  of  their  tribe. 

"Holla!  my  men,"  said  the  squire,  assuming  his  magis- 
terial air;  for  the  mildest  squire  in  Christendom  can  play  the 
bashaw  when  he  remembers  he  is  a  justice  of  the  peace. 
"  Holla !  what  are  you  doing  here  this  time  of  the  day  ?  You 
are  not  after  any  good,  I  fear." 

"  We  ax  pardon,  your  honor, "  said  the  elder  clown,  in  the 
peculiar  accent  of  the  country,  "but  we  be  come  from  Glads- 
muir,  and  be  going  to  work  at  Squire  Nixon's,  at  Mowhall,  on 
Monday;  so  as  I  has  a  brother  living  on  the  green  afore  the 
squire's,  we  be  a-going  to  sleep  at  his  house  to-night  and  spend 
the  Sunday  there,  your  honor." 

"  Humph,  humph !     What 's  your  name  ?  " 

"Joe  Wood,  your  honor;  and  this  here  chap  is  Will 
Hutchings." 

"Well,  well,  go  along  with  you,"  said  the  squire;  "and 
mind  what  you  are  about.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  you 
snared  one  of  Squire  Nixon's  hares  by  the  way." 

"  Oh,  well  and  indeed,  your  honor  —  " 

"  Go  along,  go  along, "  said  the  squire,  and  away  went  the 
men. 

"  They  seem  honest  bumpkins  enough, "  observed  Lester. 

"It  would  have  pleased  me  better,"  said  Aram,  "had  the 
speaker  of  the  two  particularized  less ;  and  you  observed  that 


EUGENE  ARAM.  199 

he  seemed  eager  not  to  let  his  companion  speak, —  that  is  a 
little  suspicious." 

"  Shall  I  call  them  back  ?  "  asked  the  squire, 
"Why,  it  is  scarcely  worth  while,"  said  Aram;  "perhaps  I 
over-refine.  And  now  I  look  again  at  them,  they  seem  really 
what  they  affect  to  be.  No,  it  is  useless  to  molest  the  poor 
wretches  any  more.  There  is  something,  Lester,  humbling  to 
human  pride  in  a  rustic's  life.  It  grates  against  the  heart  to 
think  of  the  tone  in  which  we  unconsciously  permit  ourselves 
to  address  him.  We  see  in  him  humanity  in  its  simple  state :  it 
is  a  sad  thought  to  feel  that  we  despise  it;  that  all  we  respect 
in  ou.r  species  is  what  has  been  created  by  art, —  the  gaudy 
dress,  the  glittering  equipage,  or  even  the  cultivated  intellect; 
the  mere  and  naked  material  of  nature  we  eye  with  indiffer- 
ence or  trample  on  with  disdain.  Poor  child  of  toil,  from  the 
gray  dawn  to  the  setting  sun  one  long  task;  no  idea  elicited, 
no  thought  awakened  beyond  those  that  suffice  to  make  him 
the  machine  of  others, — the  serf  of  the  hard  soil!  And  then, 
too,  mark  how  we  scowl  upon  his  scanty  holidays,  how  we 
hedge  in  his  mirth  with  laws,  and  turn  his  hilarity  into  crime ! 
We  make  the  whole  of  the  gay  world,  wherein  we  walk  and 
take  our  pleasure,  to  him  a  place  of  snares  and  perils.  If  he 
leave  his  labor  for  an  instant,  in  that  instant  how  many  temp- 
tations spring  up  to  him !  And  yet  we  have  no  mercy  for  his 
errors;  the  jail,  the  transport-ship,  the  gallows, — those  are  the 
illustrations  of  our  lecture-books,  those  the  bounds  of  every 
vista  that  we  cut  through  the  labyrinth  of  our  laws.  Ah,  fie 
on  the  disparities  of  the  world !  They  cripple  the  heart,  they 
blind  the  sense,  they  concentrate  the  thousand  links  between 
man  and  man  into  the  two  basest  of  earthly  ties,  —  servility 
and  pride.  Methinks  the  devils  laugh  out  when  they  hear  us 
tell  the  boor  that  his  soul  is  as  glorious  and  eternal  as  our 
own,  when  in  the  grinding  drudgery  of  his  life  not  a  spark 
of  that  soul  can  be  called  forth, —  when  it  sleeps,  walled  round 
in  its  lumpish  clay,  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  without  a 
dream  to  stir  the  deadness  of  its  torpor." 

"And  yet,  Aram,"  said  Lester,  "the  lords  of  science  have 
their  ills.     Exalt  the  soul  as  you  will,  you  cannot  raise  it 


200  EUGENE  ARAM. 

above  pain.     Better,  perhaps,  to  let  it  sleep,  since  in  waging 
it  looks  only  upon  a  world  of  trial." 

"You  say  well,  you  say  well,"  said  Aram,  smiting  his 
heart;  "and  I  suffered  a  foolish  sentiment  to  carry  me  beyond 
the  sober  boundaries  of  our  daily  sense." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MILITARY     PREPARATIONS. THE    COMMANDER    AND    HIS    MEN. 

ARAM  IS  PERSUADED  TO   PASS  THE   NIGHT   AT   THE  MANOR- 
HOUSE. 

Falstaff.  Bid  my  lieutenant  Peto  meet  me  at  the  town's  end.  ...  I 
pressed  me  none  but  such  toasts  and  butter,  with  hearts  in  tlieir  bellies  no 
bigger  than  pins'  heads.  —  First  Part  of  King  Henry  IV. 

They  had  scarcely  reached  the  manor-house  before  the  rain, 
which  the  clouds  had  portended  throughout  the  whole  day, 
began  to  descend  in  torrents,  and,  to  use  the  strong  expression 
of  the  Latin  poet,  the  night  rushed  down,  black  and  sudden, 
over  the  face  of  the  earth. 

The  new  watch  were  not  by  any  means  the  hardy  and  expe- 
rienced soldiery  by  whom  rain  and  darkness  are  unheeded. 
They  looked  with  great  dismay  upon  the  character  of  the 
night  in  which  their  campaign  was  to  commence.  The  valor- 
ous Peter,  who  had  sustained  his  own  courage  by  repeated  ap- 
plications to  a  little  bottle  which  he  never  failed  to  carry 
about  him  in  all  the  more  bustling  and  enterprising  occasions 
of  life,  endeavored,  but  with  partial  success,  to  maintain  the 
ardor  of  his  band.  Seated  in  the  servants'  hall  of  the  manor- 
house  in  a  large  armchair,  Jacobina  on  his  knee,  and  his 
trusty  musket,  which,  to  the  great  terror  of  the  womankind, 
had  never  been  uncocked  throughout  the  day,  still  grasped  in 
his  right  hand,  while  the  stock  was  grounded  on  the  floor,  he 
indulged  in  martial  harangues,  plentifully  interlarded  with 
plagiarisms  from  the  worshipful  translations  of  Messrs.  Stern- 
liold  and  Hopkins,  and  psalmodic  versions  of  a  more  doubtful 


EUGENE  ARAM.  201 

authorship.  And  when  at  the  hour  of  ten,  which  was  the 
appointed  time,  he  led  his  warlike  force,  which  consisted  of 
six  rustics  armed  with  sticks  of  incredible  thickness,  three 
guns,  one  pistol,  a  broadsword,  and  a  pitchfork  (the  last  a 
weapon  likely  to  be  more  effectively  used  than  all  the  rest 
put  together), —  when  at  the  hour  of  ten  he  led  them  up  to  the 
room  above,  where  they  were  to  be  passed  in  review  before  the 
critical  eye  of  the  squire,  with  Jacobina  leading  the  on-guard, 
you  could  not  fancy  a  prettier  picture  for  a  horo  in  a  little 
way  than  mine  host  of  The  Spotted  Dog. 

His  hat  was  fastened  tight  on  his  brows  by  a  blue  pocket- 
handkerchief;  he  wore  a  spencer  of  a  light-brown  diugget,  a 
world  too  loose,  above  a  leather  jerkin;  his  breeches,  of  cor- 
duroy, were  met  all  of  a  sudden,  half  way  up  the  thigh,  by  a 
detachment  of  Hessians,  formerly  in  the  service  of  the  cor- 
poral, and  bought  some  time  since  by  Peter  Dealtry  to  wear 
when  employed  in  shooting  snipes  for  the  squire,  to  whom  he 
occasionally  performed  the  office  of  gamekeeper;  suspended 
round  his  wrist  by  a  bit  of  black  ribbon  was  his  constable's 
baton.  He  shouldered  his  musket  gallantly,  and  he  carried 
his  person  as  erect  as  if  the  least  deflection  from  its  perpen- 
dicularity were  to  cost  him  his  life.  One  may  judge  of  the 
revolution  that  had  taken  place  in  the  village  when  so  peace- 
able a  man  as  Peter  Dealtry  was  thus  metamorphosed  into  a 
commander-in-chief!  The  rest  of  the  regiment  hung  sheep- 
ishly back,  each  trying  to  get  as  near  to  the  door  and  as  far 
from  the  ladies  as  possible.  But  Peter,  having  made  up  his 
mind  that  a  hero  should  only  look  straight  forward,  did  not 
condescend  to  turn  round  to  perceive  the  irregularity  of  his 
line.  Secure  in  his  own  existence,  he  stood  truculently  forth, 
facing  the  squire,  and  prepared  to  receive  his  plaudits. 

Madeline  and  Aram  sat  apart  at  one  corner  of  the  hearth, 
and  Ellinor  leaned  over  the  chair  of  the  former,  the  mirth  that 
she  struggled  to  suppress  from  being  audible  mantling  over 
her  arch  face  and  laughing  eyes  ;  while  the  sc^uire,  taking 
the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  turned  round  on  his  easy-chair 
and  nodded  complacently  to  the  little  corps  and  the  great 
commander. 


202  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"We  are  all  ready  now,  your  honor,"  said  Peter,  in  a  voice 
that  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  his  body,  so  big  did  it  sound, 
—  "all  hot,  all  eager." 

"Why,  you  yourself  are  a  host,  Peter,"  said  Ellinor,  with 
affected  gravity;  "your  sight  alone  would  frighten  an  army 
of  robbers.  Who  could  have  thought  you  could  assume  so 
military  an  air?  The  corporal  himself  was  never  so  up- 
right!" 

"I  have  practised  my  present  ?iattitude  all  the  day,  miss," 
said  Peter,  proudly;  "and  I  believe  I  may  now  say  as  Mr. 
Sternhold  says,  or  sings,  in  the  twenty-sixth  Psalm,  verse 
twelfth, — 

"  '  My  foot  is  stayed  for  all  essays, 
It  standeth  well  and  right ; 
Wherefore  to  God  will  I  give  praise 
In  all  the  people's  sight ! ' 

Jacobina,  behave  yourself,  child !  I  don't  think,  your  honor, 
that  we  miss  the  corporal  so  much  as  I  fancied  at  first,  for  we 
all  does  very  well  without  him." 

"Indeed,  you  are  a  most  worthy  substitute,  Peter.  And 
now,  Nell,  just  reach  me  my  hat  and  cloak;  I  will  set  you  at 
your  posts.     You  will  have  an  ugly  night  of  it." 

"Very  indeed,  your  honor,"  cried  all  the  army,  speaking 
for  the  first  time. 

"  Silence !  order !  discipline !  "  said  Peter,  gruffly.    "  March !  " 

But  instead  of  marching  across  the  hall,  the  recruits  hud- 
dled up  one  after  the  other,  like  a  flock  of  geese  whom 
Jacobina  might  be  supposed  to  have  set  in  motion,  and 
each  scraping  to  the  ladies  as  they  shuffled,  sneaked,  bun- 
dled, and  bustled  out  at  the  door. 

"We  are  well  guarded  now,  Madeline,"  said  Ellinor.  "I 
fancy  we  may  go  to  sleep  as  safely  as  if  there  were  not  a 
housebreaker  in  the  world." 

"Why,"  said  Madeline,  "let  us  trust  they  will  be  more 
efficient  than  they  seem;  though  I  cannot  persuade  myself 
that  we  shall  really  need  them.  One  might  almost  as  well 
conceive  a  tiger  in  our  arbor  as  a  robber  in  Grassdale.     But 


EUGENE   ARAM.  203 

dear,  dear  Eugene,  do  not,  do  not  leave  us  this  night;  Walter's 
room  is  ready  for  you,  and  if  it  were  only  to  walk  across  that 
valley  in  such  weather,  it  would  be  cruel  to  leave  us.  Let  me 
beseech  you.  Come,  you  cannot,  you  dare  not,  refuse  me  such 
a  favor." 

Aram  pleaded  his  vow,  but  it  was  overruled;  Madeline 
proved  herself  a  most  exquisite  casuist  in  setting  it  aside. 
One  by  one  his  objections  were  broken  down ;  and  how,  as  he 
gazed  into  those  eyes,  could  he  keep  any  resolution  that  Mad- 
eline wished  him  to  break  ?  The  power  she  possessed  over 
him  seemed  exactly  in  proportion  to  his  impregnability  to 
every  one  else.  The  surface  on  which  the  diamond  cuts  its 
easy  way  will  yield  to  no  more  ignoble  instrument;  it  is  easy 
to  shatter  it,  but  by  only  one  pure  and  precious  gem  can  it  be 
shaped.  But  if  Aram  remained  at  the  house  this  night,  how 
could  he  well  avoid  a  similar  compliance  the  next  ?  And  on 
the  next  was  his  interview  with  Houseman.  This  reason  for 
resistance  yielded  to  Madeline's  soft  entreaties, —  he  trusted 
to  the  time  to  furnish  him  with  excuses;  and  when  Lester 
returned,  Madeline,  with  a  triumphant  air,  informed  him  that 
Aram  had  consented  to  be  their  guest  for  the  night. 

"Your  influence  is,  indeed,  greater  than  mine,"  said  Lester, 
wringing  his  hat  as  the  delicate  fingers  of  EUinor  loosened 
his  cloak;  "yet  one  can  scarcely  think  our  friend  sacrifices 
much  in  concession,  after  proving  the  weather  without.  I 
should  pity  our  poor  patrol  most  exceedingly,  if  I  were  not 
thoroughly  assured  that  within  two  hours  every  one  of  them 
will  have  quietly  slunk  home ;  and  even  Peter  himself,  when 
he  has  exhausted  his  bottle,  will  be  the  first  to  set  the  exam- 
ple. However,  I  have  stationed  two  of  the  men  near  our 
house,  and  the  rest  at  equal  distances  along  the  village." 

"  Do  you  really  think  they  will  go  home,  sir  ?  "  said  Ellinor, 
in  a  little  alarm.  "  Why,  they  would  be  worse  than  I  thought 
them  if  they  were  driven  to  bed  by  the  rain.  I  knew  they 
could  not  stand  a  pistol,  but  a  shower,  however  hard,  I  did 
imagine  would  scarcely  quench  their  valor." 

"Never  mind,  girl,"  said  Lester,  gayly  chucking  her  under 
the  chin,   "we  are  quite  strong  enough  now  to  resist  them. 


204  EUGENE   ARAM. 

You  see  Madeline  has  grown  as  brave  as  a  lioness.  Come, 
girls,  come;  let's  have  supper,  and  stir  up  the  fire.  And, 
Nell,  where  are  my  slippers  ?  " 

And  thus  on  the  little  family  scene  —  the  cheerful  wood  fire 
flickering  against  the  polished  wainscot;  the  supper-table 
arranged,  the  squire  drawing  his  oak  chair  towards  it,  Ellinor 
mixing  his  negus;  and  Aram  and  Madeline,  though  three 
times  summoned  to  the  table,  and  having  three  times  answered 
to  the  summons,  still  lingering  apart  by  the  hearth  —  let  us 
drop  the  curtain. 

We  have  only,  ere  we  close  our  chapter,  to  observe  that 
when  Lester  conducted  Aram  to  his  chamber  he  placed  in  his 
hands  an  order,  payable  at  the  county  town,  for  three  hundred 
pounds.  "The  rest,"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "is  below,  where  I 
mentioned;  and  there,  in  my  secret  drawer,  it  had  better  rest 
till  the  morning." 

The  good  squire  then,  putting  his  finger  to  his  lip,  hurried 
away  to  avoid  the  thanks  which,  indeed,  whatever  gratitude 
lie  might  feel,  Aram  was  ill  able  to  express. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   SISTERS    ALONE. THE  GOSSIP   OF    LOVE. AN   ALARM  AND 

AN   EVENT. 

Juliet.     My  true  love  has  grov;n  to  such  excess, 
I  cannot  sum  up  half  my  sum  of  wealth.  — Romeo  and  Juliet, 

Eros.     Oh,  a  man  in  arms  ; 
Plis  weapon  drawn  too  !  —  The  False  One. 

It  was  a  custom  with  the  two  sisters,  when  they  repaired  to 
their  chamber  for  the  night,  to  sit  conversing,  sometimes 
even  for  hours,  before  they  finally  retired  to  bed.  This,  in- 
deed, was  the  usual  time  for  their  little  confidences  and  their 
mutual   dilations  over  those  hopes  and  plans  for  the  future 


EUGENE   ARAM.  205 

whicli  always  occupy  the  larger  share  of  the  thoughts  and 
conversation  of  the  young.  I  do  not  know  anything  in  the 
world  more  lovely  than  such  conferences  between  two  beings 
who  have  no  secrets  to  relate  but  what  arise,  all  fresh,  from 
the  springs  of  a  guiltless  heart, — those  pure  and  beautiful 
mysteries  of  an  unsullied  nature  which  warm  us  to  hear ;  and 
we  think  with  a  sort  of  wonder,  when  we  feel  how  arid  expe- 
rience has  made  ourselves,  that  so  much  of  the  dew  and  sparkle 
of  existence  still  lingers  in  the  nooks  and  valleys  which  are 
as  yet  virgin  of  the  sun  and  of  mankind. 

The  sisters  this  night  were  more  than  commonly  indifferent 
to  sleep.  Madeline  sat  by  the  small  but  bright  hearth  of  the 
chamber  in  her  night-dress;  and  Ellinor,  who  was  much 
prouder  of  her  sister's  beauty  than  her  own,  was  employed  in 
knotting  up  the  long  and  lustrous  hair,  which  fell  in  rich 
luxuriance  over  Madeline's  throat  and  shoulders. 

"There  certainly  never  was  such  beautiful  hair!"  said 
Ellinor,  admiringly.  "And,  let  me  see, —  yes, —  on  Thursday 
fortnight  I  may  be  dressing  it,  perhaps  for  the  last  time! 
Heigho!" 

"Don't  flatter  yourself  that  you  are  so  near  the  end  of  your 
troublesome  duties,"  said  Madeline,  with  her  pretty  smile, 
which  had  been  much  brighter  and  more  frequent  of  late  than 
it  was  formerly  wont  to  be ;  so  that  Lester  had  remarked  that 
Madeline  really  appeared  to  have  become  the  lighter  and 
gayer  of  the  two. 

"You  will  often  come  to  stay  with  us  for  weeks  together,  at 
least  till  —  till  you  have  a  double  right  to  be  mistress  here. 
Ah!  my  poor  hair,  —  you  need  not  pull  it  so  hard." 

"Be  quiet,  then,"  said  Ellinor,  half  laughing  and  wholly 
blushing. 

"  Trust  me,  I  have  not  been  in  love  myself  without  learning 
its  signs ;  and  I  venture  to  prophesy  that  within  six  months 
you  will  come  to  consult  me  whether  or  not  —  for  there  is  a 
great  deal  to  be  said  on  both  sides  of  the  question  —  you  can 
make  up  your  mind  to  sacrifice  your  own  wishes  and  marry 
Walter  Lester.     Ah!  gently,  gently!     Nell  —  " 

"Promise  to  be  quiet." 


206  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"I  will,  I  will;  but  you  began  it." 

As  Ellinor  now  finished  her  task  and  kissed  her  sister's 
forehead,  she  sighed  deeply. 

"  Happy  Walter !  "  said  Madeline. 

"I  was  not  sighing  for  Walter,  but  for  you." 

"  For  me  ?  Impossible !  I  cannot  imagine  any  part  of  my 
future  life  that  can  cost  you  a  sigh.  Ah,  that  I  were  more 
worthy  of  my  happiness !  " 

"Well,  then,"  said  Ellinor,  "I  sighed  for  myself, —  I  sighed 
to  think  we  should  so  soon  be  parted,  and  that  the  continuance 
of  your  society  would  then  depend,  not  on  our  mutual  love, 
but  on  the  will  of  another." 

"What,  Ellinor,  and  can  you  suppose  that  Eugene  —  my 
Eugene  —  would  not  welcome  you  as  warmly  as  myself  ?  Ah ! 
you  misjudge  him;  I  know  you  have  not  yet  perceived  how 
tender  a  heart  lies  beneath  all  that  melancholy  and  reserve." 

"I  feel,  indeed,"  said  Ellinor,  warmly,  "as  if  it  were  im- 
possible that  one  whom  you  love  should  not  be  all  that  is  good 
and  noble.  Yet  if  this  reserve  of  his  should  increase,  as  is 
at  least  possible,  with  increasing  years ;  if  our  society  should 
become  again,  as  it  once  was,  distasteful  to  him, —  should  I 
not  lose  you,  Madeline  ?  " 

"  But  his  reserve  cannot  increase :  do  you  not  perceive  how 
much  it  is  softened  already  ?  Ah !  be  assured  that  I  will 
charm  it  away." 

"  But  what  is  the  cause  of  the  melancholy  that  even  now, 
at  times,  evidently  preys  upon  him  ?  Has  he  never  revealed 
it  to  you  ?  " 

"It  is  merely  the  early  and  long  habit  of  solitude  and  study, 
Ellinor,"  replied  Madeline.  "And  shall  I  own  to  you  I  would 
scarcely  wish  that  away  ?  His  tenderness  itself  seems  linked 
with  his  melancholy, —  it  is  like  a  sad  but  gentle  music,  that 
brings  tears  into  our  eyes ;  but  who  would  change  it  for  gayer 
airs  ?  " 

"Well,  I  must  own,"  said  Ellinor,  reluctantly, " that  I  no 
longer  wonder  at  your  infatuation;  I  can  no  longer  chide  you 
as  I  once  did, —  there  is,  assuredly,  something  in  his  voice, 
his  look,  which  irresistibly  sinks  into  the  heart.     And  there 


EUGENE  ARAM.  207 

are  moments  when,  what  with  his  eyes  and  forehead,  his 
countenance  seems  more  beautiful,  more  impressive,  than  any 
I  ever  beheld.  Perhaps,  too,  for  you,  it  is  better  that  your 
lover  should  be  no  longer  in  the  first  flush  of  youth.  Your 
nature  seems  to  require  something  to  venerate  as  well  as  to 
love.  And  I  have  ever  observed,  at  prayers,  that  you  seem 
more  especially  rapt  and  carried  beyond  yourself  in  those  ]3as- 
sages  which  call  peculiarly  for  worship  and  adoration." 

"Yes,  dearest,"  said  Madeline,  fervently.  "I  own  that 
Eugene  is  of  all  beings,  not  only  of  all  whom  I  ever  knew,  but 
of  whom  I  ever  dreamed  or  imagined,  the  one  that  I  am  most 
fitted  to  love  and  to  appreciate.  His  wisdom  —  but,  more 
than  that,  the  lofty  tenor  of  his  mind  —  calls  forth  all  that 
is  highest  and  best  in  my  own  nature.  I  feel  exalted  when  I 
listen  to  him;  and  yet,  how  gentle,  with  all  that  nobleness! 
And  to  think  that  he  should  descend  to  love  me,  and  so  to 
love  me !     It  is  as  if  a  star  were  to  leave  its  sphere !  " 

"Hark!  one  o'clock,"  said  Ellinor,  as  the  deep  voice  of  the 
clock  told  the  first  hour  of  morning.  "  Heavens !  how  much 
louder  the  winds  rave!  And  how  the  heavy  sleet  drives 
against  the  window!  Our  poor  watch  without —  But  you 
may  be  sure  my  father  was  right,  and  they  are  safe  at  home 
by  this  time;  nor  is  it  likely,  I  should  think,  that  even  rob- 
bers would  be  abroad  in  such  weather !  " 

"I  have  heard,"  said  Madeline,  "that  robbers  generally 
choose  these  dark,  stormy  nights  for  their  designs;  but  I  con- 
fess I  don't  feel  much  alarm,  and  he  is  in  the  house.  Draw 
nearer  to  the  fire,  Ellinor;  is  it  not  pleasant  to  see  how  se- 
renely it  burns,  while  the  storm  howls  without  ?  It  is  like 
my  Eugene's  soul,  luminous  and  lone  amidst  the  roar  and 
darkness  of  this  unquiet  world !  " 

"There  spoke  himself,"  said  Ellinor,  smiling  to  perceive 
how  invariably  women  who  love,  imitate  the  tone  of  the  be- 
loved one.     And  Madeline  felt  it,  and  smiled  too. 

"Hist!"  said  Ellinor,  abruptly;  "did  you  not  hear  a  low, 
grating  noise  below  ?  Ah !  the  winds  now  prevent  your  catch- 
ing the  sound ;  but  hush,  hiish !  The  wind  pauses ;  there  it  is 
again !  " 


208  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"Yes,  I  hear  it,"  said  Madeline,  turning  pale;  "it  seems 
in  the  little  parlor, —  a  continued,  harsh,  but  very  low,  noise. 
Good  heavens!  it  seems  at  the  window  below." 

"It  is  like  a  file,"  whispered  Ellinor;  "perhaps  —  " 

"You  are  right,"  said  Madeline,  suddenly  rising, —  "it  is  a 
file,  and  at  the  bars  my  father  had  fixed  against  the  window 
yesterday.     Let  us  go  down  and  alarm  the  house." 

"No,  no;  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  be  so  rash,"  cried  Elli- 
nor, losing  all  presence  of  mind,  "Hark!  the  sound  ceases; 
there  is  a  louder  noise  below,  and  steps.  Let  us  lock  the 
door." 

But  Madeline  was  of  that  fine  and  high  order  of  spirit  which 
rises  in  proportion  to  danger;  and  calming  her  sister  as  well 
as  she  could,  she  seized  the  light  with  a  steady  hand,  opened 
the  door,  and  (Ellinor  still  clinging  to  her)  passed  the  land- 
ing-place and  hastened  to  her  father's  room, — he  slept  at  the 
opposite  corner  of  the  staircase.  Aram's  chamber  was  at  the 
extreme  end  of  the  house.  Before  she  reached  the  door  of 
Lester's  apartment  the  noise  below  grew  loud  and  distinct, 
—  a  scuffle,  voices,  curses,  and  now  the  sound  of  a  pistol!  In 
a  minute  more  the  whole  house  was  stirring.  Lester  in  his 
night-robe,  his  broadsword  in  his  hand,  and  his  long  gray 
hair  floating  behind,  was  the  first  to  appear;  the  servants,  old 
and  young,  male  and  female,  now  came  thronging  simultane- 
ously round;  and  in  a  general  body,  Lester  several  paces  at 
their  head,  his  daughters  following  next  to  him,  they  rushed 
to  the  apartment  whence  the  noise,  now  suddenly  stilled,  had 
proceeded. 

The  window  was  opened,  evidently  by  force;  an  instrument 
like  a  wedge  was  fixed  in  the  bureau  containing  Lester's 
money,  and  seemed  to  have  been  left  there,  as  if  the  person 
using  it  had  been  disturbed  before  the  design  for  which  it  was 
introduced  had  been  accomplished ;  and  (the  only  evidence  of 
life)  Aram  stood,  dressed,  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  a  pistol 
in  his  left  hand,  a  sword  in  his  right.  A  bludgeon  severed 
in  two  lay  at  his  feet,  and  on  the  floor  within  two  yards  of 
him,  towards  the  window,  drops  of  blood,  yet  warm,  showed 
that  the  pistol  had  not  been  discharged  in  vain. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  209 

*'  And  is  it  you,  my  brave  friend,  whom  I  have  to  thank  for 
our  safety  ?  "  cried  Lester,  in  great  emotion. 

"  You,  Eugene !  "  repeated  Madeline,  sinking  on  his  breast. 

"But  thanks  hereafter,"  continued  Lester;  "let  us  now  to 
the  pursuit.  Perhaps  the  villain  may  have  perished  beneath 
your  bullet." 

"Ha!"  muttered  Aram,  who  had  hitherto  seemed  uncon- 
scious of  all  around  him,  so  fixed  had  been  his  eye,  so  color- 
less his  cheek,  so  motionless  his  posture.  "  Ha !  say  you  so  ? 
Think  you  I  have  slain  him  ?  Ko,  it  cannot  be, — the  ball 
did  not  slay;  I  saw  him  stagger,  but  he  rallied,  —  not  so  one 
who  receives  a  mortal  wound.  Ha!  ha!  there  is  blood,  you 
say :  that  is  true  ;  but  what  then  ?  It  is  not  the  first  Avound 
that  kills,  you  must  strike  again.  Pooh,  pooh!  what  is  a 
little  blood?" 

While  he  was  thus  muttering,  Lester  and  the  more  active 
of  the  servants  had  already  sallied  through  the  window ;  but 
the  night  was  so  intensely  dark  that  they  could  not  see  a  step 
beyond  them.  Lester  returned,  therefore,  in  a  few  moments, 
and  met  Aram's  dark  eye  fixed  upon  him  with  an  unutterable 
expression  of  anxiety. 

"You  h^YQ  found  no  one,"  said  he, —  "no  dying  man  ?  Ha! 
well,  well,  well !  they  must  both  have  escaped ;  the  night  must 
favor  them." 

"  Do  you  fancy  the  villain  was  severely  wounded  ?  " 

"Not  so, —  I  trust  not  so  ;  he  seemed  able  to —  But  stop, 
0  God!  stop!  your  foot  is  dabbling  in  blood, —  blood  shed 
hjme!     Off!  off!" 

Lester  moved  aside  with  a  quick  abhorrence  as  he  saw  that 
his  feet  were  indeed  smearing  the  blood  over  the  polished  and 
slippery  surface  of  the  oak  boards ;  and  in  moving  he  stumbled 
against  a  dark  lantern  in  which  the  light  still  burned,  and 
which  the  robbers  in  their  flight  had  left. 

"Yes,"  said  Aram,  observing  it,  "it  was  by  that,  their  own 
light,  that  I  saw  them, —  saw  their  faces;  and  —  and  [bursting 
into  a  loud,  wild  laugh]  they  were  both  strangers !  " 

"Ah!  I  thought  so,  I  knew  so,"  said  Lester,  plucking  the 
instrument   from   the   bureau.      "  I  knew   they  could   be  no 

14 


210  EUGENE  ARAM. 

Grassdale  men.  What  did  you  fancy  they  could  be  ?  But 
—  bless  me,  Madeline —  What  ho!  help!  Aram,  she  has 
fainted  at  your  feet ! " 

And  it  was  indeed  true  and  remarkable  that  so  utter  had 
been  the  absorption  of  Aram's  mind  that  he  had  been  not  only 
insensible  to  the  entrance  of  Madeline,  but  even  unconscious 
that  she  had  thrown  herself  on  his  breast.  And  she,  over- 
come by  her  feelings,  had  slid  to  the  ground  from  that  mo- 
mentary resting-place,  in  a  swoon  which  Lester,  in  the  general 
tumult  and  confusion,  was  now  the  first  to  perceive. 

At  this  exclamation,  at  the  sound  of  Madeline's  name,  the 
blood  rushed  back  from  Aram's  heart,  where  it  had  gathered, 
icy  and  curdling  ;  and  awakened  thoroughly  and  at  once  to 
himself,  he  knelt  down,  and  weaving  his  arms  around  her,  sup- 
ported her  head  on  his  breast,  and  called  upon  her  with  the 
most  passionate  and  moving  exclamations. 

But  when  the  faint  bloom  re-tinged  her  cheek,  and  her  lips 
stirred,  he  printed  a  long  kiss  on  that  cheek,  on  those  lips,  and 
surrendered  his  post  to  Ellinor,  who,  blushingly  gathering  the 
robe  over  the  beautiful  breast  from  which  it  had  been  slightly 
drawn,  now  entreated  all,  save  the  women  of  the  house,  to 
withdraw  till  her  sister  was  restored. 

Lester,  eager  to  hear  what  his  guest  could  relate,  therefore 
took  Aram  to  his  own  apartment,  where  the  particulars  were 
briefly  told. 

Suspecting  —  which  indeed  was  the  chief  reason  that  ex- 
cused him  to  himself  in  yielding  to  Madeline's  request  —  that 
the  men  Lester  and  himself  had  encountered  in  their  evening 
walk  might  be  other  than  they  seemed,  and  that  they  might 
have  well  overheard  Lester's  communication  as  to  the  sum  in 
his  house  and  the  place  where  it  was  stored,  he  had  not  un- 
dressed himself,  but  kept  the  door  of  his  room  open,  to  listen 
if  anything  stirred.  The  keen  sense  of  hearing,  which  we 
have  before  remarked  him  to  possess,  enal)led  him  to  catch  the 
sound  of  the  file  at  the  bars  even  before  Ellinor,  notwithstand- 
ing the  distance  of  his  own  chamber  from  the  place;  and  seiz- 
ing the  sword  which  had  been  left  in  his  room  (the  pistol  was 
his  own),  he  had  descended  to  the  room  below. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  211 

"What!  "  said  Lester,  "and  without  a  light  ?" 

"The  darkness  is  familiar  tome,"  said  Aram.  "I  could 
walk  by  the  edge  of  a  precipice  in  the  darkest  night  without 
one  false  step,  if  I  had  but  once  passed  it  before.  I  did  not 
gain  the  room,  however,  till  the  window  had  been  forced;  and 
by  the  light  of  a  dark  lantern  which  one  of  them  held,  I  per- 
ceived two  men  standing  by  the  bureau.  The  rest  you  can 
imagine.  My  victory  was  easy,  for  the  bludgeon  which  one 
of  them  aimed  at  me,  gave  way  at  once  to  the  edge  of  your 
good  sword,  and  my  pistol  delivered  me  of  the  other.  There 
ends  the  history." 

Lester  overwhelmed  him  with  thanks  and  praises;  but 
Aram,  glad  to  escape  them,  hurried  away  to  see  after  Made- 
line, whom  he  now  met  on  the  landing-place,  leaning  on  Elli- 
nor's  arm,  and  still  pale. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  which  he  for  one  moment  pressed 
passionately  to  his  lips,  but  dropped  the  next,  with  an  altered 
and  chilled  air.  And  hastily  observing  that  he  would  not 
now  detain  her  from  a  rest  which  she  must  so  much  require, 
he  turned  away  and  descended  the  stairs.  Some  of  the  ser- 
vants were  grouped  around  the  place  of  encounter;  he  entered 
the  room,  and  again  started  at  the  sight  of  the  blood. 

"Bring  water!  "  said  he,  fiercely.  "Will  you  let  the  stag- 
nant gore  ooze  and  rot  into  the  boards,  to  startle  the  eye  and 
still  the  heart  with  its  filthy  and  unutterable  stain  ?  Water,  I 
say,  water !  " 

They  hurried  to  obey  him;  and  Lester,  coming  into  the  room 
to  see  the  window  reclosed  by  the  help  of  boards,  etc.,  found 
the  student  bending  over  the  servants  as  they  performed  their 
reluctant  task,  and  rating  them  with  a  raised  and  harsh  voice 
for  the  hastiness  with  which  he  accused  them  of  seeking  to 
slur  it  over. 


212  EUGENE   ARAM. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

ARAM    ALONE   AMONG   THE    MOUNTAINS. HIS     SOLILOQUY    AND 

PROJECT. SCENE    BETWEEN    HIMSELF    AND    MADELINE. 

Luce  non  grata  fruor ; 
Trepidante  semper  corde,  non  mortis  metu, 
Sed^  — 

Seneca  .  Octavia,  act  i. 

The  two  menservants  of  the  house  remained  up  the  rest  of 
the  night;  but  it  was  not  till  the  morning  had  advanced  far 
beyond  the  usual  time  of  rising,  in  the  fresh  shades  of  Grass- 
dale,  that  Madeline  and  Ellinor  became  visible.  Even  Lester 
left  his  bed  an  hour  later  than  his  wont,  and  knocking  at 
Aram's  door,  found  the  student  already  abroad,  while  it  was 
evident  that  his  bed  had  not  been  pressed  during  the  whole  of 
the  night.  Lester  descended  into  the  garden,  and  was  there 
met  by  Peter  Deal  try  and  a  detachment  of  the  band,  who,  as 
common-sense  and  Lester  had  predicted,  were  indeed  at  a  very 
early  period  of  the  watch  driven  to  their  respective  homes. 
They  were  now  seriously  concerned  for  their  unmanliness, 
which  they  passed  off  as  well  as  they  could  upon  their  convic- 
tion "that  nobody  at  Grassdale  could  ever  really  be  robbed," 
and  promised,  with  sincere  contrition,  that  they  would  be 
most  excellent  guards  for  the  future.  Peter  was,  in  sooth, 
singularly  chapfallen,  and  could  only  defend  himself  by  an 
incoherent  mutter;  from  which  the  squire  turned  somewhat 
impatiently  when  he  heard,  louder  than  the  rest,  the  words, 
"seventy-seventh  psalm,  seventeenth  verse, — 

"'  The  clouds,  that  were  both  thick  and  black, 
Did  rain  full  plenteously.' " 

Leaving  the  squire  to  the  edification  of  the  pious  host,  let 
us  follow  the  steps  of  Aram,   who   at  the   early  dawn  had 

'  "I  live  a  life  of  wretchedness;  my  heart  perpetually  tremhlijig,  not 
through  fear  of  death,  hut  —  " 


EUGENE   ARAM.  213 

quitted  his  sleepless  chamber,  and  though  the  clouds  at  that 
time  still  poured  down  in  a  dull  and  heavy  sleet,  wandered 
away,  whither  he  neither  knew  nor  heeded.  He  was  now 
hurrying,  with  unabated  speed,  though  with  no  purposed 
bourn  or  object,  over  the  chain  of  mountains  that  backed  the 
green  and  lovely  valleys  among  which  his  home  was  cast. 

"  Yes ! "  said  he,  at  last  halting  abruptly,  with  a  desperate 
resolution  stamped  on  his  countenance,  "yes!  I  will  so  de- 
termine. If  after  this  interview  I  feel  that  I  cannot  com- 
mand and  bind  Houseman's  perpetual  secrecy,  I  will  surrender 
Madeline  at  once.  She  has  loved  me  generously  and  trust- 
ingly: I  will  not  link  her  life  with  one  that  may  be  called 
hence  in  any  hour,  and  to  so  dread  an  account.  Neither  shall 
the  gray  hairs  of  Lester  be  brought,  with  the  sorrow  of  my 
shame,  to  a  dishonored  and  untimely  grave.  And  after  the 
outrage  of  last  night, —  the  daring  outrage, — how  can  I  calcu- 
late on  the  safety  of  a  day  ?  Though  Houseman  was  not  pres- 
ent, though  I  can  scarce  believe  he  knew,  or  at  least  abetted, 
the  attack,  yet  they  were  assuredly  of  his  gang;  had  one  been 
seized,  the  clew  might  have  traced  to  his  detection.  Were  he 
detected,  what  should  I  have  to  dread  ?  No,  Madeline,  no ; 
not  while  this  sword  hangs  over  me  will  I  subject  thee  to  share 
the  horror  of  my  fate !  " 

This  resolution,  which  was  certainly  generous,  and  yet  no 
more  than  honest,  Aram  had  no  sooner  arrived  at  than  he  dis- 
missed at  once,  by  one  of  those  efforts  which  powerful  minds 
can  command,  all  the  weak  and  vacillating  thoughts  that  might 
interfere  with  the  sternness  of  his  determination.  He  seemed 
to  breathe  more  freely,  and  the  haggard  wanness  of  his  brow 
relaxed  at  least  from  the  workings  that,  but  the  moment  be- 
fore, distorted  its  wonted  serenity  with  a  maniac  wildness. 

He  now  pursued  his  desultory  way  with  a  calmer  step. 

"What  a  night!  "  said  he,  again  breaking  into  the  low  mur- 
mur in  which  he  was  accustomed  to  hold  commune  with  him- 
self. "  Had  Houseman  been  one  of  the  ruffians,  a  shot  might 
have  freed  me,  and  without  a  crime,  forever;  and  till  the  light 
flashed  on  their  brows,  I  thought  the  smaller  man  bore  his 
aspect.     Ha!  out,  tempting  thought,  out  on  thee!"  he  cried 


214  EUGENE  ARAIM. 

aloud,  and  stamping  with  his  foot;  then,  recalled  by  his  own 
vehemence,  he  cast  a  jealous  and  hurried  glance  around  him, 
though  at  that  moment  his  step  was  on  the  very  height  of  the 
mountains,  where  not  even  the  solitary  shepherd,  save  in 
search  of  some  more  daring  straggler  of  the  flock,  ever 
brushed  the  dew  from  the  cragged  yet  fragrant  soil.  "Yet," 
he  said,  in  a  lower  voice,  and  again  sinking  into  the  sombre 
depths  of  his  revery,  "  it  is  a  tempting,  a  wondrously  tempt- 
ing thought.  And  it  struck  athwart  me  like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning when  this  hand  was  at  his  throat,  —  a  tighter  strain, 
another  moment,  and  Eugene  Aram  had  not  an  enemy,  a  wit- 
ness against  him,  left  in  the  world.  Ha !  are  the  dead  no  foes 
then, —  are  the  dead  no  witnesses?"  Here  he  relapsed  into 
utter  silence;  but  his  gestures  continued  wild,  and  his  eyes  wan- 
dered round  with  a  bloodshot  and  unquiet  glare.  "Enough," 
at  length  he  said  calmly,  and  with  the  manner  of  one  "who 
has  rolled  a  stone  from  his  heart, "^  "enough!  I  will  not  so 
sully  myself,  unless  all  other  hope  of  self-preservation  be 
extinct.  And  why  despond  ?  The  plan  I  have  thought  of 
seems  well-laid,  wise,  consummate  at  all  points.  Let  me  con- 
sider: forfeited  the  moment  he  re-enters  England;  not  given 
till  he  has  left  it;  paid  periodically;  and  of  such  extent  as  to 
supply  his  wants,  preserve  him  from  crime,  and  forbid  the 
possibility  of  extorting  more.  All  this  sounds  well;  and  if 
not  feasible  at  last,  why  farewell  Madeline,  and  I  myself  leave 
this  land  forever.  Come  what  will  to  me, —  death  in  its  vil- 
est shape,  —  let  not  the  stroke  fall  on  that  breast.  And  if  it 
be,"  he  continued,  his  face  lighting  up,  "if  it  be,  as  it  may 
yet,  that  I  can  chain  this  hell-hound,  why,  even  then,  the  in- 
stant that  Madeline  is  mine  I  will  fly  these  scenes;  I  will  seek 
a  yet  obscurer  and  remoter  corner  of  earth;  I  will  choose  an- 
other name  —  Fool !  why  did  I  not  so  before  ?  But  matters 
it  ?  What  is  writ  is  writ.  Who  can  struggle  with  the  in- 
visible and  giant  Hand  that  launched  the  world  itself  into  mo- 
tion, and  at  whose  pre-decree  we  hold  the  dark  boons  of  life 
and  death  ?  " 

It  was  not  till  evening  that  Aram,  utterly  worn  out  and  ex- 
1  Eastern  sayiug. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  215 

hausted,  found  himself  in  the  neighborhood  of  Lester's  house. 
The  sun  had  only  broken  forth  at  its  setting,  and  it  now  glit- 
tered, from  its  western  pyre,  over  the  dripping  hedges,  and 
flung  a  brief  but  magic  glow  along  the  rich  landscape  around, 
—  the  changing  woods  clad  in  the  thousand  dyes  of  autumn; 
the  scattered  and  peaceful  cottages,  with  their  long  wreaths 
of  smoke  curling  upward,  and  the  gray  and  venerable  walls  of 
the  manor-house,  with  the  church  hard  by,  and  the  delicate 
spire,  which,  mixing  itself  with  heaven,  is  at  once  the  most 
touching  and  solemn  emblem  of  the  faith  to  which  it  is  de- 
voted. It  was  a  Sabbath  eve;  and  from  the  spot  on  which 
Aram  stood  he  might  discern  many  a  rustic  train  trooping 
slowly  up  the  green  village  lane  towards  the  church,  and  the 
deep  bell  which  summoned  to  the  last  service  of  the  day  now 
swung  its  voice  far  over  the  sunlit  and  tranquil  scene. 

But  it  was  not  the  setting  sun,  nor  the  autumnal  landscape, 
nor  the  voice  of  the  holy  bell,  that  now  arrested  the  step  of 
Aram.  At  a  little  distance  before  him,  leaning  over  a  gate, 
and  seemingly  waiting  till  the  ceasing  of  the  bell  should  an- 
nounce the  time  to  enter  the  sacred  mansion,  he  beheld  the 
figure  of  Madeline  Lester.  Her  head  at  the  moment  was 
averted  from  him,  as  if  she  were  looking  after  Ellinor  and 
her  father,  who  were  in  the  church-yard  among  a  little  group 
of  their  homely  neighbors ;  and  he  was  half  in  doubt  whether 
to  shun  her  presence,  when  she  suddenly  turned  round,  and, 
seeing  him,  uttered  an  exclamation  of  joy.  It  was  now  too 
late  for  avoidance;  and  calling  to  his  aid  that  mastery  over 
his  features  which  in  ordinary  times  few  more  eminently 
possessed,  he  approached  his  beautiful  mistress  with  a 
smile  as  serene,  if  not  as  glowing,  as  her  own.  But  she 
had  already  opened  the  gate,  and  bounding  forward,  met  him 
half  way.    . 

"Ah,  truant,  truant,"  said  she, —  "the  whole  day  absent, 
without  inquiry  or  farewell !  After  this,  when  shall  I  believe 
that  thou  really  lovest  me?  But,"  continued  Madeline,  gaz- 
ing on  his  countenance,  which  bore  witness,  in  its  present 
languor,  to  the  fierce  emotions  which  had  lately  raged  within, 
"but,  heavens,  dearest,  how  pale  you  look!    You  are  fatigued; 


216  EUGENE  ARAM. 

give  me  your  hand,  Eugene, —  it  is  parched  and  dry.  Come 
into  the  house;  you  must  need  rest  and  refreshment." 

"  I  am  better  here,  my  Madeline, —  the  air  and  the  sun  revive 
me.  Let  us  rest  by  the  stile  yonder.  But  you  were  going  to 
church,  and  the  bell  has  ceased." 

"I  could  attend,  I  fear,  little  to  the  prayers  now,"  said 
Madeline,  "unless  you  feel  well  enough,  and  will  come  to 
church  with  me." 

"To  church!  "  said  Aram,  with  a  half  shudder.  "No;  my 
thoughts  are  in  no  mood  for  prayer." 

"  Then  you  shall  give  your  thoughts  to  me,  and  I,  in  return, 
will  pray  for  you  before  I  rest." 

And  so  saying,  Madeline,  with  her  usual  innocent  frankness 
of  manner,  wound  her  arm  in  his,  and  they  walked  onwards 
towards  the  stile  Aram  had  pointed  out.  It  was  a  little  rustic 
stile,  with  chestnut -trees  hanging  over  it  on  either  side.  It 
stands  to  this  day,  and  I  have  pleased  myself  with  finding 
Walter  Lester's  initials,  and  Madeline's  also,  with  the  date 
of  the  year,  carved  in  half-worn  letters  on  the  wood,  probably 
by  the  hand  of  the  former. 

They  now  rested  at  this  spot.  All  around  them  was  still 
and  solitary;  the  groups  of  peasants  had  entered  the  church, 
and  nothing  of  life,  save  the  cattle  grazing  in  the  distant 
fields,  or  the  thrush  starting  from  the  wet  bushes,  was  visible. 
The  winds  were  lulled  to  rest,  and  though  somewhat  of  the 
chill  of  autumn  floated  on  the  air,  it  only  bore  a  balm  to  the 
harassed  brow  and  fevered  veins  of  the  student;  and  Made- 
line,— she  felt  nothing  but  his  presence.  It  was  exactly  what 
we  picture  to  ourselves  of  a  Sabbath  eve,  —  unutterably  serene 
and  soft,  and  borrowing  from  the  very  melancholy  of  the  de- 
clining year  an  impressive  yet  a  mild  solemnity. 

There  are  seasons,  often  in  the  most  dark  or  turbulent  pe- 
riods of  our  life,  when  —  why,  we  know  not  —  we  are  suddenly 
called  from  ourselves  by  the  remembrances  of  early  childhood: 
something  touches  the  electric  chain,  and,  lo !  a  host  of  shad- 
owy and  sweet  recollections  steal  upon  us.  The  wheel  rests, 
the  oar  is  suspended,  we  are  snatched  from  the  labor  and 
travail  of  present  life;  we  are  born  again,  and  live  anew.     As 


EUGENE   ARAM.  217 

the  secret  page  in  which  the  characters  once  written  seem 
forever  effaced,  but  which,  if  breathed  upon,  gives  them  again 
into  view,  so  the  memory  can  revive  tlie  images  invisible  for 
years ;  but  while  we  gaze,  the  breath  recedes  from  the  surface, 
and  all,  one  moment  so  vivid,  with  the  next  moment  has 
become  once  more  a  blank. 

"It  is  singular,"  said  Aram,  "but  often  as  I  have  paused  at 
this  spot  and  gazed  upon  this  landscape,  a  likeness  to  the 
scenes  of  my  childish  life,  which  it  now  seems  to  me  to  pre- 
sent, never  occurred  to  me  before.  Yes,  yonder  in  that  cot- 
tage with  the  sycamores  in  front  and  the  orchard  extending 
behind  till  its  boundary,  as  we  now  stand,  seems  lost  among 
the  woodland,  I  could  fancy  that  I  looked  upon  my  father's 
home.  The  clump  of  trees  that  lies  yonder  to  the  right  could 
cheat  me  readily  to  the  belief  that  I  saw  the  little  grove  in 
which,  enamoured  with  the  first  passion  of  study,  I  was  wont 
to  pore  over  the  thrice-read  book  through  the  long  summer 
days, —  a  boy,  a  thoughtful  boy,  yet,  oh,  how  happy!  What 
worlds  appeared  then  to  me  to  open  in  every  page ;  how  ex- 
haustless  I  thought  the  treasures  and  the  hopes  of  life;  and 
beautiful  on  the  mountain-tops  seemed  to  me  the  steps  of 
Knowledge !  I  did  not  dream  of  all  that  the  musing  and  lonely 
passion  that  I  nursed  was  to  entail  upon  me.  There,  in  the 
clefts  of  the  valley,  on  the  ridges  of  the  hill,  or  by  the  fra- 
grant course  of  the  stream,  I  began  already  to  win  its  history 
from  the  herb  or  flower ;  I  saw  nothing  that  I  did  not  long  to 
unravel  its  secrets ;  all  that  the  earth  nourished  ministered  to 
one  desire :  and  what  of  low  or  sordid  did  there  mingle  with 
that  desire  ?  The  petty  avarice,  the  mean  ambition,  the  de- 
basing love,  even  the  heat,  the  anger,  the  fickleness,  the 
caprice  of  other  men,  did  they  allure  or  bow  down  my  nature 
from  its  steep  and  solitary  eyry  ?  I  lived  but  to  feed  my 
mind;  wisdom  was  my  thirst,  my  dream,  my  aliment,  my  sole 
fount  and  sustenance  of  life.  And  have  I  not  sown  the  wind 
and  reaped  the  whirlwind  ?  The  glory  of  my  youth  is  gone, 
my  veins  are  chilled,  my  frame  is  bowed,  my  heart  is  gnawed 
with  cares,  my  nerves  are  unstrung  as  a  loosened  bow:  and 
what,  after  all,  is  my  gain  ?     0  God!  what  is  my  gain  ?" 


218  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"Eugene,  dear,  dear  Eugene ! "  murmured  Madeline,  sooth- 
ingly, and  wrestling  with  her  tears,  "  is  not  your  gain  great  ? 
Is  it  not  triumph  that  you  stand,  while  yet  young,  almost  alone 
in  the  world  for  success  in  all  that  you  have  attempted  ?  " 

"  And  what, "  exclaimed  Aram,  breaking  in  upon  her,  "  what 
is  this  world  which  we  ransack  but  a  stupendous  charnel- 
house  ?  Everything  that  we  deem  most  lovely,  ask  its  origin  ? 
Decay !  When  we  rifle  Nature  and  collect  wisdom,  are  we  not 
like  the  hags  of  old,  culling  simples  from  the  rank  grave,  and 
extracting  sorceries  from  the  rotting  bones  of  the  dead  ? 
Everything  around  us  is  fathered  by  corruption,  battened  by 
corruption,  and  into  corruption  returns  at  last.  Corruption  is 
at  once  the  womb  and  grave  of  Nature ;  and  the  very  beauty 
on  which  we  gaze,  —  the  cloud  and  the  tree  and  the  swarming 
waters, —  all  are  one  vast  panorama  of  death!  But  it  did  not 
always  seem  to  me  thus ;  and  even  now  I  speak  with  a  heated 
pulse  and  a  dizzy  brain.  Come,  Madeline,  let  us  change  the 
theme." 

And  dismissing  at  once  from  his  language,  and  perhaps,  as 
he  proceeded,  also  from  his  mind,  all  of  its  former  gloom, 
except  such  as  might  shade,  but  not  embitter,  the  natural  ten- 
derness of  remembrance,  Aram  now  related  —  with  that  vivid- 
ness of  diction  which,  though  we  feel  we  can  very  inadequately 
convey  its  effect,  characterized  his  conversation,  and  gave 
something  of  poetic  interest  to  all  he  uttered  —  those  reminis- 
cences which  belong  to  childhood,  and  which  all  of  us  take 
delight  to  hear  from  the  lips  of  one  we  love. 

It  was  while  on  this  theme  that  the  lights  which  the  deepen- 
ing twilight  had  now  made  necessary  became  visible  in  the 
church,  streaming  afar  through  its  large  oriel  window,  and 
brightening  the  dark  firs  that  overshadowed  the  graves  around; 
and  just  at  that  moment  the  organ  (a  gift  from  a  rich  rector, 
and  the  boast  of  the  neighboring  country)  stole  upon  the  si- 
lence with  its  swelling  and  solemn  note.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  strain  of  this  sudden  music  that  was  so  kindred 
with  the  holy  repose  of  the  scene,  chimed  so  exactly  to  the 
chord  now  vibrating  in  Aram's  mind,  that  it  struck  upon  him 
at  once  with  an  irresistible  power.     He  paused  abruptly,  "as 


EUGENE   ARAM.  219 

if  an  angel  spoke ! "  That  sound,  so  peculiarly  adapted  to 
express  sacred  and  unearthly  emotion,  none  who  have  ever 
mourned  or  sinned  can  hear,  at  an  unlooked-for  moment,  with- 
out a  certain  sentiment  that  either  subdues  or  elevates  or  awes. 
But  he  —  he  was  a  boy  once  more ;  he  was  again  in  the  village 
church  of  his  native  place;  his  father,  with  his  silver  hair, 
stood  again  beside  him;  there  was  his  mother,  pointing  to 
him  the  holy  verse;  there  the  half -arch,  half-reverent  face 
of  his  little  sister  (she  died  young!);  there  the  upward  eye 
and  hushed  countenance  of  the  preacher  who  had  first  raised 
his  mind  to  knowledge  and  supplied  its  food, —  all,  all  lived, 
moved,  breathed,  again  before  him,  all,  as  when  he  was  young 
and  guiltless  and  at  peace,  hope  and  the  future  one  word! 

He  bowed  his  head  lower  and  lower;  the  hardness  and  hy- 
pocrisies of  pride,  the  sense  of  danger  and  of  horror  that,  in 
agitating,  still  supported  the  mind  of  this  resolute  and  schem- 
ing man,  at  once  forsook  him.  Madeline  felt  his  tears  drop 
fast  and  burning  on  her  hand ;  and  the  next  moment,  overcome 
by  the  relief  it  afforded  to  a  heart  preyed  upon  by  fiery  and 
dread  secrets  which  it  could  not  reveal,  and  a  frame  exhausted 
by  the  long  and  extreme  tension  of  all  its  powers,  he  laid  his 
head  upon  that  faithful  bosom  and  wept  aloud. 


220  EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

Aram's  secret  expedition. —  a  scene  worthy  the  actors. 
—  Aram's  address  and  powers  of  persuasion  or  hy- 
pocrisy.  their     result. A     FEARFUL     NIGHT. ARAm's 

SOLITARY      RIDE     HOMEWARD. WHOM      HE      MEETS      BY     THE 

WAY,    AND    WHAT    HE    SEES. 

Macbeth.  Now  o'er  the  one  half-world 

Nature  seems  dead. 

Donalbain.  Our  separated  fortune 

Shall  keep  us  both  the  safer. 

Old  Man.       Hours  dreadful  and  things  strange.  —  Macbeth. 

"And  you  must  really  go  to to  pay  your  importunate 

creditor  this  very  evening  ?  Sunday  is  a  bad  day  for  such 
matters;  but  as  you  pay  him  by  an  order,  it  does  not  much 
signify,  and  I  can  well  understand  your  impatience  to  feel 
relieved  from  the  debt.  But  it  is  already  late ;  and  if  it  must 
be  so,  you  had  better  start." 

"True,"  said  Aram  to  the  above  remark  of  Lester's,  as  the 
two  stood  together  without  the  door ;  "  but  do  you  feel  quite 
secure  and  guarded  against  any  renewed  attack?" 

"Why,  unless  they  bring  a  regiment,  yes!  I  have  put  a 
body  of  our  patrol  on  a  service  where  they  can  scarce  be  ineffi- 
cient,—  that  is,  I  have  stationed  them  in  the  house  instead  of 
without ;  and  I  shall  myself  bear  them  company  through  the 
greater  part  of  the  night.     To-morrow  I  shall  remove  all  that 

I  possess  of  value  to [the  county  town],  including  those 

unlucky  guineas  which  you  will  not  ease  me  of." 

"The  order  you  have  kindly  given  me  will  amply  satisfy 
my  purpose,"  answered  Aram.  "And  so  there  has  been  no 
clew  to  these  robberies  discovered  throughout  the  day  ?  " 


EUGENE   ARAM.  221 

"None.     To-morrow  the  mao^istrates  are  to  meet  at  


and  concert  measures ;  it  is  absolutely  impossible  but  that  we 
should  detect  the  villains  in  a  few  days, —  that  is,  if  they  re- 
main in  these  parts.  I  hope  to  Heaven  you  will  not  meet 
them  this  evening." 

"I  shall  go  well  armed,"  answered  Aram,  "and  the  horse 
you  lend  me  is  fleet  and  strong.  And  now  farewell  for  the 
present.  I  shall  probably  not  return  to  Grassdale  this  night, 
or  if  I  do,  it  will  be  at  so  late  an  hour  that  I  shall  seek  my 
own  domicile  without  disturbing  you." 

"  No,  no ;  you  had  better  remain  in  the  town,  and  not  return 
till  morning,"  said  the  squire,  "And  now  let  us  come  to  the 
stables." 

To  obviate  all  chance  of  suspicion  as  to  the  real  place  of 
his  destination,  Aram  deliberately  rode  to  the  town  he  had 
mentioned  as  the  one  in  which  his  pretended  creditor  expected 
him.  He  put  up  at  an  inn,  walked  forth  as  if  to  meet  some 
one  in  the  town,  returned,  remounted,  and  by  a  circuitous 
route  came  into  the  neighborhood  of  the  place  in  which  he 
was  to  meet  Houseman;  then  turning  into  a  long  and  dense 
chain  of  wood,  he  fastened  his  horse  to  a  tree,  and  looking  to 
the  priming  of  his  pistols,  which  he  carried  under  his  riding- 
cloak,  proceeded  to  the  spot  on  foot. 

The  night  was  still,  and  not  wholly  dark;  for  the  clouds 
lay  scattered,  though  dense,  and  suffered  many  stars  to  gleam 
through  the  heavy  air.  The  moon  herself  was  abroad,  but  on 
her  decline,  and  looked  forth  with  a  wan  and  saddened  aspect 
as  she  travelled  from  cloud  to  cloud.  It  has  been  the  neces- 
sary course  of  our  narrative  to  portray  Aram  more  often  in 
his  weaker  moments  than,  to  give  an  exact  notion  of  his  char- 
acter, we  could  have  altogether  wished ;  but  whenever  he  stood 
in  the  presence  of  danger,  his  whole  soul  was  in  arms  to  cope 
with  it  worthily, — courage,  sagacity,  even  cunning,  all  awak- 
ened to  the  encounter;  and  the  mind  which  his  life  had  so 
austerely  cultivated  repaid  him  in  the  urgent  season  with  its 
acute  address  and  unswerving  hardihood.  The  Devil's  Crag, 
as  it  was  popularly  called,  was  a  spot  consecrated  by  many  a 
wild  tradition,  which  would  not,   perhaps,  be  wholly  out  of 


222  EUGENE  ARAM. 

cliaraxjter  with  the  dark  thread  of  this  tale,  did  the  rapidity 
of  our  narrative  allow  us  to  relate  them. 

The  same  stream  which  lent  so  soft  an  attraction  to  the  val- 
leys of  Grassdale  here  assumed  a  different  character;  broad, 
black,  and  rushing,  it  whirled  along  a  course  overhung  by 
shagged  and  abrupt  banks.  On  the  opposite  side  to  that  by 
which  Aram  now  pursued  his  path,  an  almost  perpendiculra* 
mountain  was  covered  with  gigantic  pine  and  fir  that  might 
have  reminded  a  German  wanderer  of  the  darkest  recesses  of 
the  Hartz,  and  seemed,  indeed,  no  unworthy  haunt  for  the 
weird  huntsman  or  the  forest  fiend.  Over  this  wood  the  moon 
now  shimmered  with  the  pale  and  feeble  light  we  have  already 
described,  and  only  threw  into  a  more  sombre  shade  the  mo- 
tionless and  gloomy  foliage.  Of  all  the  offspring  of  the  for- 
est, the  fir  bears,  perhaps,  the  most  saddening  and  desolate 
aspect.  Its  long  branches,  without  absolute  leaf  or  blossom ; 
its  dead,  dark,  eternal  hue,  which  the  winter  seems  to  wither 
not,  nor  the  spring  to  revive, — have  I  know  not  what  of  a 
mystic  and  unnatural  life.  Around  all  woodland  there  is  that 
horror  umbraruvi'^  which  becomes  more  solemn  and  awful 
amidst  the  silence  and  depth  of  night;  but  this  is  yet  more 
especially  the  characteristic  of  that  sullen  evergreen.  Per- 
haps, too,  this  effect  is  increased  by  the  sterile  and  dreary 
soil  on  which,  when  in  groves,  it  is  generally  found;  and  its 
very  hardiness,  the  very  pertinacity  with  which  it  draws  its 
strange,  unfluctuating  life  from  the  sternest  wastes  and  most 
reluctant  strata,  enhance,  unconsciously,  the  unwelcome  effect 
it  is  calculated  to  create  upon  the  mind.  At  this  place,  too, 
the  waters  that  dashed  beneath  gave  yet  additional  wildness 
to  the  rank  verdure  of  the  wood,  and  contributed,  by  their 
rushing  darkness  partially  broken  by  the  stars,  and  the  hoarse 
roar  of  their  chafed  course,  a  yet  more  grim  and  savage  sub- 
limity to  the  scene. 

Winding  a  narrow  path  (for  the  whole  country  was  as  fa- 
miliar as  a  garden  to  his  footstep)  that  led  through  the  tall 
wet  herbage,  almost  along  the  perilous  brink  of  the  stream, 
Aram  was  now  aware,  by  the  increased  and  deafening  sound 
1  Shadowy  horror. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  223 

of  the  waters,  that  the  appointed  spot  was  nearly  gained ;  and 
presently  the  glimmering  and  imperfect  light  of  the  skies  re- 
vealed the  dim  shape  of  a  gigantic  rock  that  rose  abruptly 
from  the  middle  of  the  stream,  and  which,  rude,  barren,  vast, 
as  it  really  was,  seemed  now,  by  the  uncertainty  of  night, 
like  some  monstrous  and  deformed  creature  of  the  waters  sud- 
denly emerging  from  their  vexed  and  dreary  depths.  This 
was  the  far-famed  crag,  which  had  borrowed  from  tradition 
its  evil  and  ominous  name.  And  now  the  stream,  bending 
round  with  a  broad  and  sudden  swoop,  showed  at  a  little 
distance,  ghostly  and  indistinct  through  the  darkness,  the 
mighty  waterfall  whose  roar  had  been  his  guide.  Only  in 
one  streak  adown  the  giant  cataract  the  stars  were  re- 
flected; and  this  long  train  of  broken  light  glittered  pre- 
ternaturally  forth  through  the  rugged  crags  and  sombre 
verdure  that  wrapped  either  side  of  the  waterfall  in  utter 
and  rayless  gloom. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  forlorn  and  terrific  grandeur  of 
the  spot ;  the  roar  of  the  waters  supplied  to  the  ear  what  the 
night  forbade  to  the  eye.  Incessant  and  eternal,  they  thun- 
dered down  into  the  gulf;  and  then  shooting  over  that  fearful 
basin,  and  forming  another,  but  a  mimic  fall,  dashed  on  till 
they  were  opposed  by  the  sullen  and  abrupt  crag  below ;  and 
besieging  its  base  with  a  renewed  roar,  sent  their  foaming  and 
angry  spray  half  way  up  the  hoar  ascent. 

At  this  stern  and  dreary  spot,  well  suited  for  such  confer- 
ences as  Aram  and  Houseman  alone  could  hold,  and  which, 
whatever  was  the  original  secret  that  linked  the  two  men  thus 
strangely,  seemed  of  necessity  to  partake  of  a  desperate  and 
lawless  character,  with  danger  for  its  main  topic  and  death 
itself  for  its  coloring,  Aram  now  paused,  and  with  an  eye 
accustomed  to  the  darkness  looked  around  for  his  companion. 

He  did  not  wait  long  ;  from  the  profound  shadow  that 
girded  the  space  immediately  around  the  fall.  Houseman 
emerged  and  joined  the  student.  The  stunning  noise  of  the 
cataract  in  the  place  where  they  met,  forbade  any  attempt  to 
converse ;  and  they  walked  on  by  the  course  of  the  stream,  to 
gain  a  spot  less  in  reach  of  the  deafening  shout  of  the  moun- 


224  EUGENE   ARAM. 

tain  giant  as  he  ruslied  with  his  banded  waters  upon  the  valley 
like  a  foe. 

It  was  noticeable  that  as  they  proceeded,  Aram  walked  on 
with  an  unsuspicious  and  careless  demeanor;  but  Houseman, 
pointing  out  the  way  with  his  hand,  not  leading  it,  kept  a 
little  behind  Aram,  and  watched  his  motions  with  a  vigilant 
and  wary  eye.  The  student,  who  had  diverged  from  the  path 
at  Houseman's  direction,  now  paused  at  a  place  where  the 
matted  bushes  seemed  to  forbid  any  farther  progress,  and 
said,  for  the  first  time  breaking  the  silence,  "  We  cannot  pro- 
ceed :  shall  this  be  the  place  of  our  conference  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Houseman;  "we  had  better  pierce  the  bushes. 
I  know  the  way,  but  will  not  lead  it." 

"  And  wherefore  ?  " 

"The  mark  of  your  gripe  is  still  on  my  throat,"  replied 
Houseman,  significantly;  "you  know  as  well  as  I  that  it  is 
not  always  safe  to  have  a  friend  lagging  behind." 

"Let  us  rest  here,  then,"  said  Aram,  calmly,  the  darkness 
veiling  any  alteration  of  his  countenance  which  his  comrade's 
suspicion  might  have  created. 

"Yet  it  were  much  better,"  said  Houseman,  doubtingly, 
"could  we  gain  the  cave  below." 

"  The  cave !  "  said  Aram,  starting,  as  if  the  word  had  a 
sound  of  fear. 

"Ay,  ay;  but  not  Saint  Robert's,"  said  Houseman;  and  the 
grin  of  his  teeth  was  visible  through  the  dulness  of  the  shade. 
"  But  come,  give  me  your  hand,  and  I  will  venture  to  conduct 
you  through  the  thicket.  That  is  your  left  hand,"  observed 
Houseman,  with  a  sharp  and  angry  suspicion  in  his  tone; 
"give  me  the  right." 

"As  you  will,"  said  Aram,  in  a  subdued,  yet  meaning  voice 
that  seemed  to  come  from  his  heart,  and  thrilled,  for  an  in- 
stant, to  the  bones  of  him  who  heard  it, —  "as  you  will;  but 
for  fourteen  years  I  have  not  given  this  right  hand,  in  pledge 
of  fellowship,  to  living  man:  you  alone  deserve  the  courtesy, 
—  there !  " 

Houseman  hesitated  before  he  took  the  hand  now  extended 
to  him. 


EUGENE   ARAM  225 

"Pshaw!"  said  he,  as  if  indignant  at  himself;  "what  scru- 
ples at  a  shadow!  Come,"  grasping  the  hand,  "that 's  well, — 
so,  so;  now  we  are  in  the  thicket.  Tread  firm;  this  way. 
Hold!"  continued  Houseman,  under  his  breath,  as  suspicion 
anew  seemed  to  cross  him,  "  hold !  we  can  see  each  other's  face 
not  even  dimly  now;  but  in  this  hand  —  my  right  is  free  —  I 
have  a  knife  that  has  done  good  service  ere  this ;  and  if  I  do 
but  suspect  that  you  are  abput  to  play  me  false,  I  bury  it  in 
your  heart.     Do  you  heed  me  ?  " 

"  Fool !  "  said  Aram,  scornfully ;  "  I  should  dread  you  dead 
yet  more  than  living." 

Houseman  made  no  answer,  but  continued  to  grope  on 
through  the  path  in  the  thicket,  which  he  evidently  knew 
well;  though  even  in  daylight,  so  thick  were  the  trees,  and 
so  artfully  had  their  boughs  been  left  to  cover  the  track,  no 
path  could  have  been  discovered  by  one  unacquainted  with 
the  clew. 

They  had  now  walked  on  for  some  minutes,  and  of  late  their 
steps  had  been  threading  a  rugged  and  somewhat  precipitous 
descent;  all  this  while  the  pulse  of  the  hand  Houseman  held, 
beat  with  as  steadfast  and  calm  a  throb  as  in  the  most  quiet 
mood  of  learned  meditation,  although  Aram  could  not  but  be 
conscious  that  a  mere  accident,  a  slip  of  the  foot,  an  entangle- 
ment in  the  briers,  might  awaken  the  irritable  fears  of  his 
ruffian  comrade  and  bring  the  knife  to  his  breast.  But  this 
was  not  that  form  of  death  that  could  shake  the  nerves  of 
Aram;  nor,  though  arming  his  soul  to  ward  off  one  danger, 
was  he  well  sensible  of  another  that  might  have  seemed  equally 
near  and  probable  to  a  less  collected  and  energetic  nature. 
Houseman  now  halted,  again  put  aside  the  boughs,  proceeded 
a  few  steps,  and  by  a  certain  dampness  and  oppression  in  the 
air  Aram  rightly  conjectured  himself  in  the  cavern  Houseman 
had  spoken  of.  "We  are  landed  now,"  said  Houseman.  "But 
wait!  I  will  strike  a  light.  I  do  not  love  darkness,  even 
with  another  sort  of  companion  than  the  one  I  have  now  the 
honor  to  entertain." 

In  a  few  moments  a  light  was  produced,  and  i^laced  aloft  on 
a  crag  in  the  cavern ;  but  the  ray  it  gave  was  feeble  and  dull, 

15 


226  EUGENE  ARAM. 

and  left  all,  beyond  the  immediate  spot  in  which  they  stood, 
in  a  darkness  little  less  Cimmerian  than  before. 

"'Fore  Gad,  it  is  cold,"  said  Houseman,  shivering;  "but  I 
have  taken  care,  you  see,  to  provide  for  a  friend's  comfort." 
So  saying,  he  approached  a  bundle  of  dry  sticks  and  leaves 
piled  at  one  corner  of  the  cave,  applied  the  light  to  the  fuel, 
and  presently  the  fire  rose  crackling,  breaking  into  a  thou- 
sand sparks,  and  freeing  itself  gradually  from  the  clouds  of 
smoke  in  which  it  was  enveloped.  It  now  mounted  into  a 
ruddy  and  cheering  flame,  and  the  warm  glow  played  pictur- 
esquely upon  the  gray  sides  of  the  cavern,  which  was  of  a 
rugged  shape  and  small  dimensions,  and  cast  its  reddening 
light  over  the  forms  of  the  two  men. 

Houseman  stood  close  to  the  flame,  spreading  his  hands  over 
it,  and  a  sort  of  grim  complacency  stealing  along  features 
singularly  ill-favored,  and  sinister  in  their  expression,  as  he 
felt  the  animal  luxury  of  the  warmth. 

Across  his  middle  was  a  broad  leathern  belt  containing  a 
brace  of  large  horse-pistols  and  the  knife,  or  rather  dagger, 
with  which  he  had  menaced  Aram, —  an  instrument  sharpened 
on  both  sides  and  nearly  a  foot  in  length.  Altogether,  what 
with  his  muscular  breadth  of  figure,  his  hard  and  rugged  fea- 
tures, his  weapons,  and  a  certain  reckless,  bravo  air  which  in- 
describably marked  his  attitude  and  bearing,  it  was  not  well 
possible  to  imagine  a  fitter  habitant  for  that  grim  cave,  or  one 
from  whom  men  of  peace,  like  Eugene  Aram,  might  have 
seemed  to  derive  more  reasonable  cause  of  alarm. 

The  scholar  stood  at  a  little  distance,  waiting  till  his  com- 
panion was  entirely  prepared  for  the  conference,  and  his  pale 
and  lofty  features,  hushed  in  their  usual  deep,  but  at  such  a 
moment  almost  preternatural,  repose.  He  stood  leaning  with 
folded  arms  against  the  nide  wall,  the  light  reflected  upon  his 
dark  garments,  with  the  graceful  riding-cloak  of  the  day 
half  falling  from  his  shoulder,  and  revealing  also  the  pistols 
in  his  belt,  and  the  sword  which,  though  commonly  worn  at 
that  time  by  all  pretending  to  superiority  above  the  lower  and 
trading  orders,  Aram  usually  waived  as  a  distinction,  but 
now  carried  as  a  defence.     And  nothing  could  be  more  strik- 


EUGENE  ARAM.  227 

ing  than  the  contrast  between  the  ruffian  form  of  his  compan- 
ion and  the  delicate  and  chiselled  beauty  of  the  student's 
features,  with  their  air  of  mournful  intelligence  and  serene 
command,  and  the  slender  though  nervous  symmetry  of  his 
frame. 

"Houseman,"  said  Aram,  now  advancing,  as  his  comrade 
turned  his  face  from  the  flame  towards  him,  "before  we  enter 
on  the  main  subject  of  our  proposed  commune,  tell  me,  were 
you  engaged  in  the  attempt  last  night  upon  Lester's  house  ?  " 

"By  the  fiend,  no!  "  answered  Houseman;  "nor  did  I  learn 
it  till  this  morning:  it  was  unpremeditated  till  within  a  few 
hours  of  the  time,  by  the  two  fools  who  alone  planned  it. 
The  fact  is  that  I  myself  and  the  greater  part  of  our  little 
band  were  engaged  some  miles  off,  in  the  western  part  of  the 
county.  Two  —  our  general  spies  —  had  been,  of  their  own 
accord,  into  your  neighborhood  to  reconnoitre.  They  marked 
Lester's  house  during  the  day,  and  gathered  from  unsuspected 
inquiry  in  the  village  —  for  they  were  dressed  as  mere  country 
clowns  —  several  particulars  which  induced  them  to  think  the 
house  contained  what  might  repay  the  trouble  of  breaking  into 
it;  and  walking  along  the  fields,  they  overheard  the  good 
master  of  the  house  tell  one  of  his  neighbors  of  a  large  sum 
at  home, —  nay,  even  describe  the  place  where  it  was  kept. 
That  determined  them;  they  feared  that  the  sum  might  be 
removed  the  next  day.  They  had  noted  the  house  sufficiently 
to  profit  by  the  description  given ;  they  determined,  then,  of 
themselves,  for  it  was  too  late  to  reckon  on  our  assistance,  to 
break  into  the  room  in  which  the  money  was  kept, —  though 
from  the  aroused  vigilance  of  the  frightened  hamlet  and  the 
force  within  the  house,  they  resolved  to  attempt  no  further 
booty.  They  reckoned  on  the  violence  of  the  storm  and  the 
darkness  of  the  night  to  prevent  their  being  heard  or  seen. 
They  were  mistaken:  the  house  was  alarmed,  they  were  no 
sooner  in  the  luckless  room  than  —  " 

"  Well,  I  know  the  rest.  Was  the  one  wounded  dangerously 
hurt  ?  " 

"Oh,  he  will  recover,  he  will  recover;  our  men  are  no 
chickens.      But  I  own  I  thought  it  natural  that  you  might 


228  EUGENE  ARAM. 

suspect  me  of  sharing  in  the  attack;  and  though,  as  I  have 
said  before,  I  do  not  love  you,  I  have  no  wish  to  embroil 
matters  so  far  as  an  outrage  on  the  house  of  your  father- 
in-law  might  be  reasonably  expected  to  do, —  at  all  events 
while  the  gate  to  an  amicable  compromise  between  us  is  still 
open." 

"  1  am  satisfied  on  this  head, "  said  Aram,  "  and  I  can  now 
treat  with  you  in  a  spirit  of  less  distrustful  precaution  than 
before.  I  tell  you,  Houseman,  that  the  terms  are  no  longer 
at  your  control  •,  you  must  leave  this  part  of  the  country,  and 
that  forthwith,  or  you  inevitably  perish.  The  whole  popu- 
lation is  alarmed,  and  the  most  vigilant  of  the  London  police 
have  been  already  sent  for.  Life  is  sweet  to  you,  as  to  us  all, 
and  I  cannot  imagine  you  so  mad  as  to  incur,  not  the  risk, 
but  the  certainty,  of  losing  it.  You  can  no  longer,  therefore, 
hold  the  threat  of  your  presence  over  my  head.  Besides, 
were  you  able  to  do  so,  I  at  least  have  the  power,  which  you 
seem  to  have  forgotten,  of  freeing  myself  from  it.  Am  I 
chained  to  yonder  valleys  ?  Have  I  not  the  facility  of  quit- 
ting them  at  any  moment  I  will, —  of  seeking  a  hiding-place 
which  might  baffle,  not  only  your  vigilance  to  discover  me, 
but  that  of  the  law  ?  True,  my  approaching  marriage  puts 
some  clog  upon  my  wing  ;  but  you  know  that  I,  of  all  men, 
am  not  likely  to  be  the  slave  of  passion.  And  what  ties  are 
strong  enough  to  arrest  the  steps  of  him  who  flies  from  a 
fearful  death  ?  Am  I  using  sophistry  here.  Houseman  ? 
Have  I  not  reason  on  my  side  ? " 

"What  you  say  is  true  enough,"  said  Houseman,  reluc- 
tantly, "I  do  not  gainsay  it.  But  I  know  you  have  not  sought 
me,  in  this  spot  and  at  this  hour,  for  the  purpose  of  denying 
my  claims ;  the  desire  of  compromise  alone  can  have  brought 
you  hither." 

"You  speak  well,"  said  Aram,  preserving  the  admirable 
coolness  of  his  manner,  and  continuing  the  deep  and  sagacious 
hypocrisy  by  which  he  sought  to  baffle  the  dogged  covetous - 
ness  and  keen  sense  of  interest  with  which  he  had  to  contend. 
"  It  is  not  easy  for  either  of  us  to  deceive  the  other.  We  are 
men  whose  perception  a  life  of  danger  has  sharpened  upon  all 


EUGENE   ARAM.  229 

points;  I  speak  to  you  frankly,  for  disguise  is  imavailing. 
Though  I  can  fly  from  your  reach,  though  I  can  desert  my 
present  home  and  my  intended  bride,  I  would  fain  think  I 
have  free  and  secure  choice  to  preserve  that  exact  path  and 
scene  of  life  which  I  have  chalked  out  for  myself;  I  would 
fain  be  rid  of  all  apprehension  from  you.  There  are  two 
ways  only  by  which  this  security  can  be  won:  the  first  is 
through  your  death, —  nay,  start  not,  nor  put  your  hand  on 
your  pistol;  you  have  not  now  cause  to  fear  me.  Had  I 
chosen  that  method  of  escape,  I  could  have  effected  it  long 
since.  When,  months  ago,  you  slept  under  my  roof, —  ay, 
slept, —  what  should  have  hindered  me  from  stabbing  you 
during  the  slumber  ?  Two  nights  since,  when  my  blood  was 
up  and  the  fury  upon  me,  what  should  have  prevented  me 
tightening  the  grasp  that  you  so  resent,  and  laying  you  breath- 
less at  my  feet  ?  Nay,  now,  though  you  keep  your  eye  fixed 
on  my  motions  and  your  hand  upon  your  weapon,  you  would 
be  no  match  for  a  desperate  and  resolved  man  who  might  as 
well  perish  in  conflict  with  you  as  by  the  protracted  accom- 
plishment of  your  threats.  Your  ball  might  fail, —  even  now 
I  see  your  hand  trembles;  mine,  if  I  so  will  it,  is  certain 
death.  No,  Houseman,  it  would  be  as  vain  for  your  eye  to 
scan  the  dark  pool  into  whose  breast  yon  cataract  casts  its 
waters  as  for  your  intellect  to  pierce  the  depths  of  my  mind 
and  motives.  Your  murder,  though  in  self-defence,  would  lay 
a  weight  upon  my  soul  which  would  sink  it  forever;  I  should 
see  in  your  death  new  chances  of  detection  spread  themselves 
before  me.  The  terrors  of  the  dead  are  not  to  be  bought  or 
awed  into  silence;  I  should  pass  from  one  peril  into  another; 
and  the  law's  dread  vengeance  might  fall  upon  me,  through 
the  last  peril,  even  yet  more  surely  than  through  the  first. 
Be  composed  on  this  point.  From  my  hand,  unless  you  urge 
it  madly  upon  yourself,  you  are  wholly  safe.  Let  us  turn  to 
my  second  method  of  attaining  security.  It  lies,  not  in  your 
momentary  cessation  from  persecutions,  not  in  your  absence 
from  this  spot  alone, —  you  must  quit  the  country;  you  must 
never  return  to  it;  your  home  must  be  cast,  and  your  very 
grave  dug,  in  a  foreign  soil.     Are  you  prepared  for  this  ?    If 


230  EUGENE   ARAM. 

not,  I  can  say  no  more,  and  I  again  cast  myself  passive  into 
the  arms  of  Fate." 

"You  ask,"  said  Houseman,  whose  fears  were  allayed  by 
Aram's  address,  though  at  the  same  time  his  dissolute  and 
desperate  nature  was  subdued  and  tamed,  in  spite  of  himself, 
by  the  very  composure  of  the  loftier  mind  with  which  it  was 
brought  in  contact,  "you  ask,"  said  he,  "no  trifling  favor  of 
a  man,  —  to  desert  his  country  forever.  But  I  am  no  dreamer, 
that  I  should  love  one  spot  better  than  another.  I  might, 
perhaps,  prefer  a  foreign  clime,  as  the  safer  and  the  freer 
from  old  recollections,  if  I  could  live  in  it  as  a  man  who  loves 
the  relish  of  life  should  do.  Show  me  the  advantages  I  am 
to  gain  by  exile,  and  farewell  to  the  pale  cliffs  of  England 
forever !  " 

"Your  demand  is  just,"  answered  Aram.  "Listen,  then. 
I  am  willing  to  coin  all  my  poor  wealth,  save  alone  the  barest 
pittance  wherewith  to  sustain  life, —  nay,  more,  I  am  prepared 
also  to  melt  down  the  whole  of  my  possible  expectations  from 
others,  into  the  form  of  an  annuity  to  yourself.  But  mark,  it 
will  be  taken  out  of  my  hands,  so  that  you  can  have  no  power 
over  me  to  alter  the  conditions  with  which  it  will  be  saddled. 
It  will  be  so  vested  that  it  shall  commence  the  moment  you 
touch  a  foreign  clime,  and  wholly  and  forever  cease  the  mo- 
ment you  set  foot  on  any  part  of  English  ground,  or  —  mark 
also  —  at  the  moment  of  my  death.  1  shall  then  know  that  no 
further  hope  from  me  can  induce  you  to  risk  this  income;  for 
as  I  shall  have  spent  my  all  in  attaining  it,  you  cainiot  even 
meditate  the  design  of  extorting  more.  I  shall  know  that 
you  will  not  menace  my  life,  for  my  death  would  be  the  de- 
struction of  your  fortunes.  We  shall  live  thus  separate  and 
secure  from  each  other :  you  will  have  only  cause  to  hope  for 
my  safety ;  and  I  shall  have  no  reason  to  shudder  at  your  pur- 
suits. It  is  true  that  one  source  of  fear  might  exist  for  me 
still, —  namely,  that  in  dying  you  should  enjoy  the  fruitless 
vengeance  of  criminating  me ;  but  this  chance  I  must  patiently 
endure.  You,  if  older,  are  more  robust  and  hardy  than  my- 
self,—  your  life  will  probably  be  longer  than  mine;  and  even 
were  it  otherwise,  why  should  we  destroy  one  another  ?    I 


EUGENE   ARAM.  231 

will  solemnly  swear  to  respect  your  secret  at  my  deatli-bed; 
why  not  on  your  part,  I  say  not  swear,  but  resolve  to  respect 
mine  ?  We  cannot  love  one  another ;  but  why  hate  with  a 
gratuitous  and  demon  vengeance  ?  No,  Houseman,  however 
circumstances  may  have  darkened  or  steeled  your  heart,  it  is 
touched  with  humanity  yet :  you  will  owe  to  me  the  bread  of 
a  secure  and  easy  existence;  you  will  feel  that  I  have  stripped 
myself,  even  to  penury,  to  purchase  the  comforts  I  cheerfully 
resign  to  you;  you  will  remember  that,  instead  of  the  sacri- 
fices enjoined  by  this  alternative,  I  might  have  sought  only  to 
counteract  youi  threats  by  attempting  a  life  that  you  strove 
to  make  a  snare  and  torture  to  my  own.  You  will  remember 
this,  and  you  will  not  grudge  me  the  austere  and  gloomy  sol- 
itude in  which  I  seek  to  forget,  or  the  one  solace  with  which 
I,  perhaps  vainly,  endeavor  to  cheer  my  passage  to  a  quiet 
grave.  No,  Houseman,  no-,  dislike,  hate,  menace  me  as  you 
will,  I  still  feel  I  shall  have  no  cause  to  dread  the  mere 
wantonness  of  your  revenge." 

These  words,  aided  by  a  tone  of  voice  and  an  expression  of 
countenance  that  gave  them  perhaps  their  chief  effect,  took 
even  the  hardened  nature  of  Houseman  by  surprise;  he  was 
affected  by  an  emotion  which  he  could  not  have  believed  it 
possible  the  man  who  till  then  had  galled  him  by  the  hum- 
bling sense  of  inferiority  could  have  created.  He  extended 
his  hand  to  Aram. 

"By ,"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  oath  which  we  spare  the 

reader,  "you  are  right!  You  have  made  me  as  helpless  in 
your  hands  as  an  infant.  I  accept  your  offer, —  if  I  were  to 
refuse  it,  I  should  be  driven  to  the  same  courses  I  now  pur- 
sue. But  look  you ;  I  know  not  what  may  be  the  amount  of 
the  annuity  you  can  raise.  I  shall  not,  however,  require 
more  than  will  satisfy  my  wants,  which,  if  not  so  scanty  as 
your  own,  are  not  at  least  very  extravagant  or  very  refined. 
As  for  the  rest,  if  there  be  any  surplus,  in  God's  name  keep 
it  for  yourself,  and  rest  assured  that,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
you  shall  be  molested  no  more." 

"No,  Housem:in,"  said  Aram,  with  a  half  smile,  "you  shall 
have  all  I  first  mentioned;   that  is,  all  beyond  what  nature 


232  EUGENE   ARAM. 

craves,  honorably  and  fully.  Man's  best  resolutions  are  "weak^ 
if  you  knew  I  possessed  aught  to  spare,  a  fancied  want,  a 
momentary  extravagance,  might  tempt  you  to  demand  it.  Let 
us  put  ourselves  beyond  the  possible  reach  of  temptation. 
But  do  not  flatter  yourself  by  the  hope  that  the  income  will 
be  magnificent.  My  own  annuity  is  but  trifling,  and  the  half 
of  the  dowry  I  expect  from  my  future  father-in-law  is  all  that 
I  can  at  present  obtain.  The  whole  of  that  dowry  is  insig- 
nificant as  a  sum.  But  if  this  does  not  sufiice  for  you,  I  must 
beg  or  borrow  elsewhere." 

"This,  after  all,  is  a  pleasanter  way  of  settling  business," 
said  Houseman,  "  than  by  threats  and  anger.  And  now  I  will 
tell  you  exactly  the  sum  on  which,  if  I  could  receive  it  yearly, 
I  could  live  without  looking  beyond  the  pale  of  the  law  for 
more, —  on  which  I  could  cheerfully  renounce  England  and 
commence  'the  honest  man.'  Bat  then,  hark  you,  I  must 
have  half  settled  on  my  little  daughter." 

"What!  have  you  a  child?"  said  Aram,  eagerly,  and  well 
pleased  to  find  an  additional  security  for  his  own  safety. 

"Ay,  a  little  girl, — my  only  one,  —  in  her  eighth  year. 
She  lives  with  her  grandmother,  for  she  is  motherless;  and 
that  girl  must  not  be  left  quite  destitute  should  I  be  sum- 
moned hence  before  my  time.  Some  twelve  years  hence  —  as 
poor  Jane  promises  to  be  pretty  —  she  may  be  married  off  my 
hands ;  but  her  childhood  must  not  be  exposed  to  the  chances 
of  beggary  or  shame." 

"  Doubtless  not,  doubtless  not.  Who  shall  say  now  that  we 
ever  outlive  feeling?"  said  Aram.  "Half  the  annuity  shall 
be  settled  upon  her,  should  she  survive  you ;  but  on  the  same 
condition,  ceasing  when  I  die,  or  the  instant  of  your  return  to 
England.     And  now,  name  the  sum  that  you  deem  sufficing." 

"Why,"  said  Houseman,  counting  on  his  fingers  and  mut- 
tering, "twenty  —  fifty  —  wine  and  the  creature  cheap  abroad; 
humph!  a  hundred  for  living,  and  half  as  much  for  pleasure. 
Come,  Aram,  one  hundred  and  fifty  guineas  per  annum,  Eng- 
lish money,  will  do  for  a  foreign  life,  — you  see  I  am  easily 
satisfied." 

"Be  it  so,"  said  Aram;  "I  will  engage,  by  one  means  or 


EUGENE   ARAM.  233 

another,  to  obtain  what  you  ask.  For  this  purpose  I  shall  set 
out  for  London  to-morrow ;  I  will  not  lose  a  moment  in  seeing 
the  necessary  settlement  made  as  we  have  specified.  But, 
meanwhile,  you  must  engage  to  leave  this  neighborhood,  and, 
if  possible,  cause  your  comrades  to  do  the  same;  although  you 
will  not  hesitate,  for  the  sake  of  your  own  safety,  immediately 
to  separate  from  them." 

"Now  that  we  are  on  good  terms,"  replied  Houseman,  "I 
will  not  scruple  to  oblige  you  in  these  particulars.  My  com- 
rades intend  to  quit  the  country  before  to-morrow,  —  nay,  half 
are  already  gone;  by  daybreak  I  myself  will  be  some  miles 
hence,  and  separated  from  each  of  them.  Let  us  meet  in 
London  after  the  business  is  completed,  and  there  conclude 
our  last  interview  on  earth." 

"  What  will  be  your  address  ?  " 

"  In  Lambeth  there  is  a  narrow  alley  that  leads  to  the  water- 
side, called  Feveril  Lane.  The  last  house  to  the  right,  to- 
wards the  river,  is  my  usual  lodging, —  a  safe  resting-place 
at  all  times  and  for  all  men." 

"There  then  will  I  seek  you.  And  now,  Houseman,  fare 
you  well !  As  you  remember  your  word  to  me,  may  life  flow 
smooth  for  your  child." 

"Eugene  Aram,"  said  Houseman,  "there  is  about  you  some- 
thing against  which  the  fiercer  devil  within  me  would  rise  in 
vain.  I  have  read  that  the  tiger  can  be  awed  by  the  human 
eye,  and  you  compel  me  into  submission  by  a  spell  equally 
unaccountable.  You  are  a  singular  man,  and  it  seems  to  me 
a  riddle  how  we  could  ever  have  been  thus  connected,  or  how 
—  But  we  will  not  rip  up  the  past;  it  is  an  ugly  sight,  and  the 
fire  is  just  out.  Those  stories  do  not  do  for  the  dark.  But 
to  return.  Were  it  only  for  the  sake  of  my  child,  you  might 
depend  upon  me  now.  Better,  too,  an  arrangement  of  this 
sort  than  if  I  had  a  larger  sum  in  hand,  which  I  might  be 
tempted  to  fling  away,  and,  in  looking  for  more,  run  my  neck 
into  a  halter  and  leave  poor  Jane  upon  charity.  But  come, 
it  is  almost  dark  again,  and  no  doubt  you  wish  to  be  stirring. 
Stay,  I  will  lead  you  back,  and  put  you  on  the  right  track, 
lest  you  stumble  on  my  friends." 


234  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"  Is  this  cavern  one  of  their  haunts  ?  "  said  Aram. 

"Sometimes;  but  they  sleep  the  other  side  of  the  Devil's 
Crag  to-night.  Nothing  like  a  change  of  quarters  for  longev- 
ity, eh  ?  " 

"  And  they  easily  spare  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  if  it  be  only  on  rare  occasions  and  on  the  plea  of 
family  business.  Now  then  your  hand,  as  before.  'S  death! 
how  it  rains!  —  lightning  too!  I  could  look  with  less  fear  on 
a  naked  sword  than  those  red,  forked,  blinding  flashes.  Hark! 
thunder !  " 

The  night  had  now,  indeed,  suddenly  changed  its  aspect; 
the  rain  descended  in  torrents,  even  more  impetuously  than 
on  the  former  night,  while  the  thunder  burst  over  their  very 
heads  as  they  wound  upward  through  the  brake.  With  every 
instant  the  lightning,  darting  through  the  riven  chasm  of  the 
blackness  that  seemed  suspended  as  in  a  solid  substance  above, 
brightened  the  whole  heaven  into  one  livid  and  terrific  flame, 
and  showed  to  the  two  men  the  faces  of  each  other,  rendered 
deathlike  and  ghastly  by  the  glare.  Houseman  was  evidently 
affected  by  the  fear  that  sometimes  seizes  even  the  sturdiest 
criminals  when  exposed  to  those  more  fearful  phenomena  of 
the  heavens,  which  seem  to  humble  into  nothing  the  power 
and  the  wrath  of  man.  His  teeth  chattered,  and  he  muttered 
broken  words  about  the  peril  of  wandering  near  trees  when 
the  lightning  was  of  that  forked  character,  quickening  his 
pace  at  every  sentence,  and  sometimes  interrupting  himself 
with  an  ejaculation,  half  oath,  half  prayer,  or  a  "congratula- 
tion that  the  rain  at  least  diminished  the  danger.  They  soon 
cleared  the  thicket,  and  a  few  minutes  brought  them  once 
more  to  the  banks  of  the  stream  and  the  increased  roar  of  tlie 
cataract.  No  earthly  scene,  perhaps,  could  surpass  the  ap- 
palling sublimity  of  that  which  they  beheld, —  every  instant 
the  lightning,  which  became  more  and  more  frequent,  con- 
verting the  black  waters  into  billows  of  living  fire,  or  wreath- 
ing itself  in  lurid  spires  around  the  huge  crag  that  now  rose 
in  sight;  and  again,  as  the  thunder  rolled  onward,  darting  its 
vain  fury  upon  the  rushing  cataract  and  the  tortured  bi*east 
of  the  gidf  that  raved  below.     And  the  sounds  that  filled  the 


EUGENE    ARAM.  235 

air  were  even  more  fraught  with,  terror  and  menace  than  the 
scene,  —  the  waving,  the  groans,  the  crash  of  the  pines  on 
the  hill,  the  impetuous  force  of  the  rain  upon  the  whirling 
river,  and  the  everlasting  roar  of  the  cataract,  answered  anon 
by  the  yet  more  awful  voice  that  burst  above  it  from  the 
clouds. 

They  halted  while  yet  sufficiently  distant  from  the  cataract 
to  be  heard  by  each  other.  "My  path,"  said  Aram,  as  the 
lightning  now  paused  upon  the  scene,  and  seemed  literally  to 
wrap  in  a  lurid  shroud  the  dark  figure  of  the  student,  as  he 
stood,  with  his  hand  calmly  raised,  and  his  cheek  pale,  but 
dauntless  and  composed, —  "my  path  now  lies  yonder;  in  a 
week  we  shall  meet  again." 

"  By  the  fiend, "  said  Houseman,  shuddering,  "  I  would  not, 
for  a  full  hundred,  ride  alone  through  the  moor  you  will  pass! 
There  stands  a  gibbet  by  the  road,  on  which  a  parricide  was 
hanged  in  chains.  Pray  Heaven  this  night  be  no  omen  of  the 
success  of  our  present  compact !  " 

"  A  steady  heart,  Houseman, "  answered  Aram,  striking  into 
the  separate  path,  "is  its  own  omen," 

The  student  soon  gained  the  spot  in  which  he  had  left  his 
horse;  the  animal  had  not  attempted  to  break  the  bridle,  but 
stood  trembling  from  limb  to  limb,  and  testified  by  a  quick, 
short  neigh  the  satisfaction  with  which  it  hailed  the  approach 
of  its  master,  and  found  itself  no  longer  alone. 

Aram  remounted,  and  hastened  once  more  into  the  main 
road.  He  scarcely  felt  the  rain,  though  the  fierce  wind  drove 
it  right  against  his  path;  he  scarcely  marked  the  lightning, 
though  at  times  it  seemed  to  dart  its  arrows  on  his  very  form : 
his  heart  was  absorbed  in  the  success  of  his  schemes. 

"Let  the  storm  without  howl  on,"  thought  he;  "that  within 
hath  a  respite  at  last.  Amidst  the  winds  and  rains  I  can 
breathe  more  freely  than  I  have  done  on  the  smoothest  sum- 
mer day.  By  the  charm  of  a  deeper  mind  and  a  subtler  tongue 
I  have  conquered  this  desperate  foe,  I  have  silenced  this  in- 
veterate spy.  And,  Heaven  be  praised,  he  too  has  human 
ties;  and  by  those  ties  I  hold  him!  Now,  then,  I  hasten  to 
London,  I  arrange  this  annuity,  see  that  the  law  tightens  every 


236  EUGENE  ARAM. 

cord  of  the  compact;  and  when  all  is  done,  and  this  dangerous 
man  fairly  departed  on  his  exile,  I  return  to  Madeline,  and 
devote  to  her  a  life  no  longer  the  vassal  of  accident  and  the 
hour.  But  I  have  been  taught  caution.  Secure  as  my  own 
prudence  may  have  made  me  from  further  apprehension  of 
Houseman,  I  will  yet  place  myself  wholly  beyond  his  power; 
I  will  still  consummate  my  former  purpose,  adopt  a  new 
name,  and  seek  a  new  retreat.  Madeline  may  not  know  the 
real  cause,  but  this  brain  is  not  barren  of  excuse.  Ah!"  as 
drawing  his  cloak  closer  round  him,  he  felt  the  purse  hid 
within  his  breast  which  contained  the  order  he  had  obtained 
from  Lester, —  "ah!  this  will  now  add  its  quota  to  purchase, 
not  a  momentary  relief,  but  the  stipend  of  perpetual  silence. 
I  have  passed  through  the  ordeal  easier  than  I  had  hoped  for. 
Had  the  devil  at  his  heart  been  more  difficult  to  lay,  so  neces- 
sary is  his  absence  that  I  must  have  purchased  it  at  any  cost. 
Courage,  Eugene  Aram!  thy  mind,  for  which  thou  hast  lived, 
and  for  which  thou  hast  hazarded  thy  soul, —  if  soul  and  mind 
be  distinct  from  each  other,  —  thy  mind  can  support  thee  yet 
through  every  peril;  not  till  thou  art  stricken  into  idiocy 
shalt  thou  behold  thyself  defenceless.  How  cheerfully,"  mut- 
tered he,  after  a  momentary  pause,  —  "  how  cheerfully,  for 
safety,  and  to  breathe  with  a  quiet  heart  the  air  of  Madeline's 
presence,  shall  I  rid  myself  of  all  save  enough  to  defy  want! 
And  want  can  never  now  come  to  me,  as  of  old.  He  who 
knows  the  sources  of  every  science  from  Avhich  wealth  is 
wrought,  holds  even  wealth  at  his  will." 

Breaking  at  every  interval  into  these  soliloquies,  Aram  con- 
tinued to  breast  the  storm  until  he  had  won  half  his  journey, 
and  had  come  upon  a  long  and  bleak  moor,  which  was  the 
entrance  to  that  beautiful  line  of  country  in  which  the  valleys 
around  Grassdale  are  embosomed.  Faster  and  faster  came 
the  rain;  and  though  the  thunder-clouds  were  now  behind, 
they  yet  followed  loweringly,  in  their  black  array,  the  path 
of  the  lonely  horseman. 

But  now  he  heard  the  sound  of  hoofs  making  towards  him. 
He  drew  his  horse  on  one  side  of  the  road,  and  at  that  in- 
stant, a  broad  flash  of  lightning  illumining  the  space  around, 


EUGENE   ARAM.  237 

he  beheld  four  horsemen  speeding  along  at  a  rapid  gallop. 
They  were  armed,  and  conversing  loudly;  their  oaths  were 
heard  jarringly  and  distinctly  amidst  all  the  more  solemn  and 
terrific  sounds  of  the  night.  They  came  on  sweeping  by  the 
student,  whose  hand  was  on  his  pistol,  for  he  recognized  in 
one  of  the  riders  the  man  who  had  escaped  unwounded  from 
Lester's  house,  —  he  and  his  comrades  were  evidently,  then, 
Houseman's  desperate  associates.  And  they,  too,  though  they 
were  borne  too  rapidly  by  Aram  to  be  able  to  rein  in  their 
horses  on  the  spot,  had  seen  the  solitary  traveller,  and  already 
wheeled  round,  and  called  upon  him  to  halt. 

The  lightning  was  again  gone,  and  the  darkness  snatched 
the  robbers  and  their  intended  victim  from  the  sight  of  each 
other.  But  Aram  had  not  lost  a  moment, —  fast  fled  his  horse 
across  the  moor;  and  when,  with  the  next  flash,  he  looked 
back,  he  saw  that  the  ruffians,  unwilling,  even  for  booty,  to 
encounter  the  horrors  of  the  night,  had  followed  him  but  a 
few  paces,  and  again  turned  round.  Still  he  dashed  on,  and 
had  now  nearly  passed  the  moor.  The  thunder  rolled  fainter 
and  fainter  from  behind,  and  the  lightning  only  broke  forth 
at  prolonged  intervals,  when  suddenly,  after  a  pause  of  un- 
usual duration,  it  brought  the  whole  scene  into  a  light,  if  less 
intolerable,  even  more  livid  than  before.  The  horse,  that  had 
hitherto  sped  on  without  start  or  stumble,  now  recoiled  in 
abrupt  affright;  and  the  horseman,  looking  up  at  the  cause, 
beheld  the  gibbet  of  which  Houseman  had  spoken,  immedi- 
ately fronting  his  path,  with  its  ghastly  tenant  waving  to  and 
fro  as  the  winds  rattled  through  the  parched  and  arid  bones, 
and  the  inexpressible  grin  of  the  skull  fixed,  as  in  mockery, 
upon  his  countenance. 


BOOK     IV. 


'H  Ki57rp(j  oil  iravdrj/jLos '  IXdax^o  ^W  ^^^^  elTrCjv 
Ovpavidv.  — 

Tlpa^Lvhrj.     Qdpcre,  ZuTrvplwv,  yXvKepbv  t^kos,  ov  \^yu  dir(pOv. 
Topyd).     AiffOdverai  rb  ^picpos,  val  rdv  irbTVLav. 

The  Venus,  not  the  vulgar !  propitiate  the  divinity,  terming  her  the  Uranian. 

Peaxinoe.     Be  of  good  cheer,  Zopyrion,  dear  child,  I  do  not  speak  of  thy 
father. 

GoRGO.     The  boy  comprehends,  by  Proserpine  !  —  Theocritus. 


CHAPTEE   I. 

IN   WHICH    WE   RETURN   TO   WALTER. —  HIS  DEBT  OF  GRATITUDE 

TO     MR.      PERTINAX     FILLGRAVE. THE     CORPORAl's     ADVICE 

AND    THE    corporal's    VICTORY. 

Let  a  physician  be  ever  so  excellent,  there  will  be  those  that  censure 
him.  —  Gil  Bias. 

We  left  Walter  in  a  situation  of  that  critical  nature  that  it 
would  be  inhuman  to  delay  our  return  to  hira  any  longer.  The 
blow  by  which  he  had  been  felled  stunned  hira  for  an  instant; 
but  his  frame  was  of  no  common  strength  and  hardihood,  and 
the  imminent  peril  in  which  he  was  placed  served  to  recall 
him  from  the  momentary  insensibility.  On  recovering  him- 
self, he  felt  that  the  ruffians  were  dragging  him  towards  the 
hedge,  and  the  thought  flashed  upon  him  that  their  object  was 
miirder.  Nerved  by  this  idea,  he  collected  his  strength,  and 
suddenly  wresting  himself  from  the  grasp  of  one  of  the  ruffians, 
who  had  seized  him  by  the  collar,  he  had  already  gained  his 


EUGENE   ARAM.  239 

knee,  and  now  his  feet,  when  a  second  blow  once  more  de- 
prived him  of  sense. 

When  a  dim  and  struggling  consciousness  recurred  to  him, 
he  found  that  the  villains  had  dragged  him  to  the  opposite 
side  of  the  hedge,  and  were  deliberately  robbing  him.  He 
was  on  the  point  of  renewing  a  useless  and  dangerous  strug- 
gle, when  one  of  the  ruffians  said, — 

"  I  think  he  stirs.  I  had  better  draw  my  knife  across  his 
throat." 

"  Pooh,  no !  "  replied  another  voice ;  "  never  kill  if  it  can  be 
helped.  Trust  me,  't  is  an  ugly  thing  to  think  of  afterwards. 
Besides,  what  use  is  it  ?  A  robbery  in  these  parts  is  done 
and  forgotten;  but  a  murder  rouses  the  whole  country." 

"Damnation,  man!  Why,  the  deed's  done  already;  he's 
as  dead  as  a  door-nail." 

"  Dead !  "  said  the  other,  in  a  startled  voice,  "  no,  no !  "  and 
leaning  down,  the  ruffian  placed  his  hand  on  Walter's  heart. 
The  unfortunate  traveller  felt  his  flesh  creep  as  the  hand 
touched  him,  but  prudently  abstained  from  motion  or  excla- 
mation. He  thought,  however,  as  with  dizzy  and  half-shut 
eyes  he  caught  the  shadowy  and  dusky  outline  of  the  face 
that  bent  over  him,  so  closely  that  he  felt  the  breath  of  its 
lips,  that  it  was  a  face  he  had  seen  before;  and  as  the 
man  now  rose,  and  the  wan  light  of  the  skies  gave  a  some- 
what clearer  view  of  his  features,  the  supposition  was  heigh- 
tened, though  not  absolutely  confirmed.  But  Walter  had 
no  further  power  to  observe  his  plunderers :  again  his  brain 
reeled;  the  dark  trees,  the  grim  shadows  of  human  forms, 
swam  before  his  glazing  eye,  and  he  sank  once  more  into 
a  profound  insensibility. 

Meanwhile  the  doughty  corporal  had,  at  the  first  sight  of 
his  master's  fall,  halted  abruptly  at  the  spot  to  which  his 
steed  had  carried  him ;  and  coming  rapidly  to  the  conclusion 
that  three  men  were  best  encountered  at  a  distance,  he  fired 
his  two  pistols,  and  without  staying  to  see  if  they  took  effect, 
—  which,  indeed,  they  did  not, —  galloped  down  the  precipi- 
tous hill  with  as  much  despatch  as  if  it  had  been  the  last  stage 
to  "Lunnun." 


240  EUGENE    ARAM. 

"My  poor  young  master!  "  muttered  he.  "But  if  the  worst 
comes  to  the  worst,  the  chief  part  of  the  money  's  in  the  sad- 
dle-bags, any  how;  and  so,  messieurs  thieves,  you're  bit, 
baugh ! " 

The  corporal  was  not  long  in  reaching  the  town  and  alarm- 
ing the  loungers  at  the  inn-door.  A  posse  comitatus  was  soon 
formed;  and  armed  as  if  they  were  to  have  encountered  all 
the  robbers  between  Hounslow  and  the  Apennines,  a  band  of 
heroes,  with  the  corporal,  who  had  first  deliberately  reloaded 
his  pistols,  at  their  head,  set  off  to  succor  "the  poor  gentle- 
man what  was  already  murdered." 

They  had  not  got  far  before  they  found  Walter's  horse, 
which  had  luckily  broken  from  the  robbers,  and  was  now 
quietly  regaling  himself  on  a  patch  of  grass  by  the  roadside. 
^^ He  can  get  his  supper,  the  beast!"  grunted  the  corporal, 
thinking  of  his  own,  and  bade  one  of  the  party  try  to  catch 
the  animal, —  which,  however,  would  have  declined  all  such 
proffers,  had  not  a  long  neigh  of  recognition  from  the  Roman 
nose  of  the  corporal's  steed,  striking  familiarly  on  the  strag- 
gler's ear,  called  it  forthwith  to  the  corporal's  side,  and  (while 
the  two  chargers  exchanged  greeting)  the  corporal  seized  its 
rein. 

When  they  came  to  the  spot  from  which  the  robbers  had 
made  their  sally,  all  was  still  and  tranquil;  no  Walter  was 
to  be  seen.  The  corporal  cautiously  dismounted,  and  searched 
about  with  as  much  minuteness  as  if  he  were  looking  for  a 
pin;  but  the  host  of  the  inn  at  which  the  travellers  had  dined 
the  day  before  stumbled  at  once  on  the  right  track.  Gouts  of 
blood  on  the  white,  chalky  soil  directed  him  to  the  hedge,  and 
creeping  through  a  small  and  recent  gap,  he  discovered  the 
yet  breathing  body  of  the  young  traveller. 

Walter  was  now  conducted  with  much  care  to  the  inn.  A 
surgeon  was  already  in  attendance;  for  having  heard  that  a 
gentleman  had  been  murdered  without  his  knowledge,  Mr. 
Pertinax  Fillgrave  had  rushed  from  his  house  and  placed  him- 
self on  the  road,  that  the  poor  creature  might  not,  at  least,  be 
buried  without  his  assistance.  So  eager  was  he  to  begin  that 
he  scarce  suffered  the  unfortunate  Walter  to  be  taken  within 


EUGENE   ARAM.  241 

before  lie  whipped  out  his  instruments  and  set  to  work  with 
the  smack  of  an  amateur. 

Although  the  surgeon  declared  his  patient  to  be  in  the  great- 
est possible  danger,  the  sagacious  corporal,  who  thought  him- 
self privileged  to  know  more  about  wounds  than  any  man  of 
peace  by  profession,  however  destructive  by  practice,  could 
possibly  be,  had  himself  examined  those  his  master  had  re- 
ceived before  he  went  down  to  taste  his  long-delayed  supper; 
and  he  now  confidently  assured  the  landlord  and  the  rest  of 
the  good  company  in  the  kitchen  that  the  blows  on  the  head 
had  been  mere  flea-bites,  and  that  his  master  would  be  as  well 
as  ever  in  a  week  at  the  furthest. 

And,  indeed,  when  Walter  the  very  next  morning  woke  from 
the  stupor,  rather  than  the  sleep,  he  had  undergone,  he  felt 
himself  surprisingly  better  than  the  surgeon,  producing  his 
probe,  hastened  to  assure  him  he  possibly  could  be. 

By  the  help  of  Mr.  Pertinax  Fillgrave,  Walter  was  detained 
several  days  in  the  town;  nor  is  it  wholly  improbable  but 
that  for  the  dexterity  of  the  corporal  he  might  be  in  the  town 
to  this  day, —  not,  indeed,  in  the  comfortable  shelter  of  the 
old-fashioned  inn,  but  in  the  colder  quarters  of  a  certain  green 
spot  in  which,  despite  of  its  rural  attractions,  few  persons 
are  willing  to  fix  a  permanent  habitation. 

Luckily,  however,  one  evening,  the  corporal,  who  had  been, 
to  say  truth,  very  regular  in  his  attendance  on  his  master, — 
for,  bating  the  selfishness  consequent,  perhaps,  on  his  know- 
ledge of  the  world,  Jacob  Bunting  was  a  good-natured  man  on 
the  whole,  and  liked  his  master  as  well  as  he  did  anything, 
always  excepting  Jacobina  and  board-wages, —  one  evening, 
we  say,  the  corporal,  coming  into  Walter's  apartment,  found 
him  sitting  up  in  his  bed,  with  a  very  melancholy  and  de- 
jected expression  of  countenance. 

"  And  well,  sir,  what  does  the  doctor  say  ?  "  asked  the  cor- 
poral, drawing  aside  the  curtains. 

"Ah!  Bunting,  I  fancy  it 's  all  over  with  me!  " 
"The  Lord  forbid,  sir!     You  're  a  jesting,  surely!  " 
"Jesting,  my  good  fellow;  ah!  just  get  me  that  phial." 
"  The  filthy  stuff  !  "    said  the  corporal,    with  a  wry  face. 

16 


242  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"  Well,  sir,  if  I  had  had  the  dressing  of  yon,  been  half  way  to 
Yorkshire  by  this.  Man  's  a  worm,  and  when  a  doctor  gets 
'un  on  his  hook,  he  is  sure  to  angle  for  the  devil  with  the  bait, 
augh ! " 

"What!  you  really  think  that  d — d  fellow  Fillgrave  is 
keeping  me  on  in  this  way  ?  " 

"  Is  he  a  fool  to  give  up  three  phials  a  day,  4s.  6d.  item, 
ditto,  ditto  ? "  cried  the  corporal,  as  if  astonished  at  the 
question.  "But  don't  you  feel  yourself  getting  a  deal  better 
every  day  ?     Don't  you  feel  all  this  'ere  stuff  revive  you  ?  " 

"No,  indeed,  I  was  amazingly  better  the  first  day  than  I  am 
now;  I  make  progress  from  worse  to  worse.  Ah!  Bunting, 
if  Peter  Dealtry  were  here,  he  might  help  me  to  an  appropri- 
ate epitaph;  as  it  is,  I  suppose  I  shall  be  very  simply  la- 
belled. Fillgrave  will  do  the  whole  business,  and  put  it 
down  in  his  bill:  item,  nine  draughts;  item,  one  epitaph." 

"  Lord  a  mercy,  your  honor ! "  said  the  corporal,  drawing 
out  a  little  red-spotted  pocket-handkerchief,  "  how  can  jest  so  ? 
It 's  quite  moving." 

"I  wish  tae  were  moving!  "  sighed  the  patient. 

"And  so  we  might  be,"  cried  the  corporal;  "so  we  might, 
if  you  'd  pluck  up  a  bit.  Just  let  me  look  at  your  honor's 
head;  I  knows  what  a  con/usion  is  better  nor  any  of  'em." 

The  corporal,  having  obtained  permission,  now  removed  the 
bandages  wherewith  the  doctor  had  bound  his  intended  sacri- 
fice to  Pluto;  and  after  peering  into  the  wounds  for  about  a 
minute,  he  thrust  out  his  under-lip  with  a  contemptuous  — 

"Pshaugh!  augh!  And  how  long,"  said  he,  "does  Master 
Fillgrave  say  you  be  to  be  under  his  hands  ?  augh !  " 

"  He  gives  me  hopes  that  I  may  be  taken  out  an  airing  very 
gently  (yes,  hearses  always  go  very  gently!)  in  about  three 
weeks !  " 

The  corporal  started,  and  broke  into  a  long  whistle.  He 
then  grinned  from  ear  to  ear,  snapped  his  fingers,  and  said, 
"Man  of  the  world,  sir,  man  of  the  world,  every  inch  of 
him!" 

"He  seems  resolved  that  I  shall  be  a  man  of  another  world!  " 
said  Walter. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  24S 

"Tell  ye  what,  sir,  take  my  advice, — your  honor  knows  I 
be  no  fool, — throw  off  them  'ere  wrappers;  let  me  put  on  a 
scrap  of  plaster;  pitch  phials  to  the  devil;  order  out  horses 
to-morrow;  and  when  you've  been  in  the  air  half  an  hour, 
won't  know  yourself  again !  " 

"  Bunting !  the  horses  out  to-morrow  ?  Faith,  I  don't  think 
I  could  walk  across  the  room." 

"Just  try,  your  honor." 

"Ah!  I'm  very  weak,  very  weak, — my  dressing-gown  and 
slippers.  Your  arm.  Bunting —  Well,  upon  my  honor,  I 
walk  very  stoutly,  eh  ?  I  should  not  have  thought  this ! 
Leave  go :  why,  I  really  get  on  without  your  assistance ! " 

"Walk  as  well  as  ever  you  did." 

"ISTow  I  'm  out  of  bed,  I  don't  think  I  shall  go  back  again 
to  it." 

"  Would  not,  if  I  was  your  honor. " 

"  After  so  much  exercise,  I  really  fancy  I  've  a  sort  of  an 
appetite." 

"  Like  a  beefsteak  ?  " 

"Nothing  better." 

"Pint  of  wine?" 

"  Why,  that  would  be  too  much,  eh  ?  " 

"Not  it." 

"  Go  then,  my  good  Bunting,  go,  and  make  haste.  Stop,  I 
say,  that  d — d  fellow  —  " 

"Good  sign  to  swear,"  interrupted  the  corporal;  "swore 
twice  within  last  five  minutes,  —  famous  symptom!" 

"  Do  you  choose  to  hear  me  ?  That  d — d  fellow  Fillgrave 
is  coming  back  in  an  hour  to  bleed  me :  do  you  mount  guard ; 
refuse  to  let  him  in;  pay  him  his  bill, — you  have  the  money. 
And  hark  ye,  don't  be  rude  to  the  rascal." 

"Rude,  your  honor!  Not  I, — been  in  the  Forty-second-, 
knows  discipline, — only  rude  to  the  privates!  " 
,  The  corporal  having  seen  his  master  conduct  himself  re- 
spectably towards  the  viands  with  which  he  supplied  him, 
having  set  his  room  to  rights,  brought  him  the  candles,  bor- 
rowed him  a  book,  and  left  him,  for  the  present,  in  extremely 
good  spirits,  and  prepared  for  the  flight  of  the  morrow, —  the 


244  EUGEXE   ARAM. 

corporal,  I  say,  now  lighting  his  pipe,  stationed  himself  at  the 
door  of  the  inn  and  waited  for  Mr.  Pertinax  Fillgrave.  Pres- 
ently the  doctor,  who  was  a  little,  thin  man,  came  bustling 
across  the  street,  and  was  about,  with  a  familiar  "  Good  even- 
ing," to  pass  by  the  corporal,  when  that  worthy,  dropping  his 
pipe,  said  respectfully,  "  Beg  pardon,  sir,  want  to  speak  to  you, 
—  a  little  favor.    Will  your  honor  walk  into  the  back  parlor  ?  " 

"Oh!  another  patient,"  thought  the  doctor;  "these  soldiers 
are  careless  fellows, —  often  get  into  scrapes.  Yes,  friend, 
I  'm  at  your  service." 

The  corporal  showed  the  man  of  phials  into  the  back  parlor, 
and,  hemming  thrice,  looked  sheepish,  as  if  in  doubt  how  to 
begin.     It  was  the  doctor's  business  to  encourage  the  bashful. 

"Well,  my  good  man,"  said  he,  brushing  off,  with  the  arm 
of  his  coat,  some  dust  that  had  settled  on  his  inexpressibles, 
"  so  you  want  to  consult  me  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  your  honor,  I  do ;  but  I  feel  a  little  awkward  in 
doing  so, — a  stranger  and  all." 

"Pooh!  medical  men  are  never  strangers.  I  am  the  friend 
of  every  man  who  requires  my  assistance." 

"Augh!  and  I  do  require  your  honor's  assistance  very 
sadly." 

"Well,  well,  speak  out.     Anything  of  long  standing  ?" 

"  Why,  only  since  we  have  been  here,  sir." 

"Oh,  that's  all!     Well?" 

"Your  honor  's  so  good  that  won't  scruple  in  telling  you  all. 
You  sees  as  how  we  were  robbed, —  master,  at  least,  was, — 
had  some  little  in  my  pockets ;  but  we  poor  servants  are  never 
too  rich.  You  seem  such  a  kind  gentleman  —  so  attentive  to 
master,  though  you  must  have  felt  how  disinterested  it  was  to 
tend  a  man  what  had  been  robbed  —  that  I  have  no  hesitation 
in  making  bold  to  ask  you  to  lend  us  a  few  guineas,  just  to 
help  us  out  with  the  bill  here,   bother ! " 

"  Fellow !  "  said  the  doctor,  rising,  "  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean;  but  I  'd  have  you  to  learn  that  I  am  not  to  be  cheated 
out  of  my  time  and  property.  I  shall  insist  upon  being  paid 
my  bill  instantly,  before  I  dress  your  master's  wound  once 
more !  " 


EUGENE    ARAM.  245 

"Augh!"  said  the  corporal,  who  was  delighted  to  find  the 
doctor  come  so  immediately  into  the  snare,  *'  won't  be  so  cruel, 
surely!  Why,  you'll  leave  us  without  a  shiner  to  pay  my 
host  here !  " 

"Nonsense!  Your  master,  if  he's  a  gentleman,  can  write 
home  for  money." 

"  Ah,  sir,  all  very  well  to  say  so ;  but  between  you  and  me 
and  the  bed-post,  young  master  's  quarrelled  with  old  master; 
old  master  won't  give  him  a  raj).  So  I  'm  sure,  since  your 
honor  's  a  friend  to  every  man  who  requires  your  assistance, 
—  noble  saying,  sir !  —  you  won't  refuse  us  a  few  guineas.  And 
as  for  your  bill,  why  —  " 

"Sir,  you're  an  impudent  vagabond!"  cried  the  doctor,  as 
red  as  a  rose-draught,  and  flinging  ovit  of  the  room;  "and  I 
warn  you  that  I  shall  bring  in  my  bill,  and  expect  to  be  paid 
within  ten  minutes." 

The  doctor  waited  for  no  answer ;  he  hurried  home,  scratched 
off  his  account,  and  flew  back  with  it  in  as  much  haste  as  if 
his  patient  had  been  a  month  longer  under  his  care,  and  was 
consequently  on  the  brink  of  that  happier  world  where,  since 
the  inhabitants  are  immortal,  it  is  very  evident  that  doctors, 
as  being  useless,  are  never  admitted. 

The  corporal  met  him  as  before. 

"  There,  sir !  "  cried  the  doctor,  breathlessly ;  and  then,  put- 
ting his  arms  akimbo,  "take  that  to  your  master,  and  desire 
him  to  pay  me  instantly." 

"Augh!  and  shall  do  no  such  thing." 

"  You  won't  ?  " 

"No,  for  shall  pay  you  myself.    Where  's  your  receipt,  eh  ?  " 

And  with  great  composure  the  corporal  drew  out  a  well-filled 
purse  and  discharged  the  bill.  The  doctor  was  so  thunder- 
stricken  that  he  pocketed  the  money  without  uttering  a  word. 
He  consoled  himself,  however,  with  the  belief  that  Walter, 
whom  he  had  tamed  into  a  becoming  hypochondria,  would  be 
sure  to  send  for  him  the  next  morning.  Alas  for  mortal  ex- 
pectations I  The  next  morning  Walter  was  once  more  on  the 
road. 


246  EUGENE   ARAM. 


CHAPTER   II. 

new  traces    of   the  fate  of   geoffrey    lester. "walter 

aistd   the  corporal  proceed   on"  a   fresh    expedition. 

the  corporal  is  especially  sagacious  on  the  old  topic 

of  the  world.  his  opinions    of  the  men  who   claim 

knowledge  thereof;  on  the  advantages  enjoyed  by  a 
valet;    on  the  science  of   successful  love;    on  virtue 

AND    the  constitution;    ON    QUALITIES  TO   BE   DESIRED  IN  A 
MISTRESS,    ETC. A    LANDSCAPE. 

This  "way  of  talking  of  his  very  much  enlivens  the  conversation  among  us 
of  a  more  sedate  turn.  —  Spectator,  No.  III. 

Walter  found,  while  he  made  search  himself,  that  it  was  no 
easy  matter,  in  so  large  a  county  as  Yorkshire,  to  obtain  even 
the  preliminary  particulars;  namely,  the  place  of  residence 
and  the  name  of  the  colonel  from  India  whose  dying  gift  his 
father  had  left  the  house  of  the  worthy  Courtland  to  claim 
and  receive.  But  the  moment  he  committed  the  inquiry  to 
the  care  of  an  active  and  intelligent  lawyer,  the  case  seemed 
to  brighten  up  prodigiously ;  and  Walter  was  shortly  informed 
that  a  Colonel  Elmore,  who  had  been  in  India,  had  died  in  the 
year  17 — ;  that  by  a  reference  to  his  will  it  appeared  that  he 
had  left  to  Daniel  Clarke  the  sura  of  a  thousand  pounds  and 
the  house  in  which  he  resided  before  his  death, —  the  latter, 
being  merely  leasehold,  at  a  high  rent,  was  specified  in  the 
will  to  be  of  small  value ;  it  was  situated  in  the  outskirts  of 
Knaresborough.  It  was  also  discovered  that  a  Mr.  Jonas 
Elmore,  the  only  surviving  executor  of  the  will,  and  a  distant 
relation  of  the  deceased  colonel,  lived  about  fifty  miles  from 
York,  and  could,  in  all  probability,  better  than  any  one  afford 
Walter  those  further  particulars  of  which  he  was  so  desirous 
to  be  informed.  Walter  immediately  proposed  to  his  lawyer 
to  accompany  him  to  this  gentleman's  house ;  but  it  so  hap- 
pened that  the  lawyer  could  not,  for  three  or  four  days,  leave 


EUGENE  ARAM.  247 

his  business  at  York;  and  Walter,  exceedingly  impatient  to 
proceed  on  the  intelligence  thus  granted  him,  and  disliking 
the  meagre  information  obtained  from  letters  when  a  personal 
interview  could  be  obtained,  resolved  himself  to  repair  to  Mr. 
Jonas  Elmore's  without  further  delay.  And  behold,  there- 
fore, our  worthy  corporal  and  his  master  again  mounted,  and 
commencing  a  new  journey. 

The  corporal,  always  fond  of  adventure,  was  in  high  spirits. 

"See,  sir,"  said  he  Co  his  master,  patting  with  great  affec- 
tion the  neck  of  his  steed,  "see,  sir,  how  brisk  the  creturs 
are;  what  a  deal  of  good  their  long  rest  at  York  city  's  done 
'em!  Ah,  your  honor,  what  a  fine  town  that  'ere  be!  Yet," 
added  the  corporal,  with  an  air  of  great  superiority,  "  it  gives 
you  no  notion  of  Lunnon  like ;  on  the  faith  of  a  man,  no ! " 

"Well,  Bunting,  perhaps  we  may  be  in  London  within  a 
month  hence." 

"And  afore  we  gets  there,  your  honor, — no  offence, —  but 
should  like  to  give  you  some  advice ;  't  is  ticklish  place  that 
Lunnon;  and  though  you  be  by  no  manner  of  means  deficient 
in  genius,  yet,  sir,  you  he  young,  and  /be  —  " 

"  Old, —  true,  Bunting,"  added  Walter,  very  gravely. 

"Augh,  bother!  old,  sir?  old,  sir  ?  A  man  in  the  prime  of 
life,  hair  coal  black  (bating  a  few  gray  ones  that  have  had 
since  twenty,  —  care,  and  military  service,  sir),  carriage 
straight,  teeth  strong,  not  an  ail  in  the  world  bating  the 
rheumatics,  is  not  old,  sir,  not  by  no  manner  of  means, 
baugh ! " 

"You  are  very  right,  Bunting;  when  I  said  'old,'  I  meant 
'experienced.'  I  assure  you  I  shall  be  very  grateful  for  your 
advice;  and  suppose,  while  we  walk  our  horses  up  this  hill, 
you  begin  lecture  the  first.  London  's  a  fruitful  subject ;  all 
you  can  say  on  it  will  not  be  soon  exhausted. " 

"  Ah !  may  well  say  that, "  replied  the  corporal,  exceedingly 
flattered  with  the  permission  he  had  obtained;  "and  anything 
my  poor  wit  can  suggest,  quite  at  your  honor's  sarvice,  ehem, 
hem!  You  must  know  by  Lunnon  I  means  the  world,  and  by 
the  world  means  Lunnon;  know  one, —  know  t'other.  But 
't  is  not  them  as  affects  to  be  most  knowing  as  be  so  at  bottom. 


248  EUGENE   ARAM. 

Begging  your  honor's  pardon,  I  thinks  gentlefolks  what  lives 
only  with  gentlefolks,  and  calls  themselves  men  of  the  world, 
be  often  no  wiser  nor  Pagan  creturs,  and  live  in  a  Gentile 
darkness." 

"The  true  knowledge  of  the  world,"  said  Walter,  "is  only 
then  for  the  corporals  of  the  Forty-second,  eh.  Bunting  ?  " 

"As  to  that,  sir,"  quoth  the  corporal,  "'tis  not  being  of 
this  calling  or  of  that  calling  that  helps  one  on;  't  is  an  inborn 
sort  of  genus,  the  talent  of  obsarving,  and  growing  wise  by 
obsarving.  One  picks  up  crumb  here,  crumb  there;  but  if 
one  has  not  good  digestion.  Lord,  what  sinnifies  a  feast  ? 
Healthy  man  thrives  on  a  'tato ;  sickly  looks  pale  on  a  haunch. 
You  sees,  your  honor,  as  I  said  afore,  I  was  own  sarvant  to 
Colonel  Dysart;  he  was  a  lord's  nephy,  a  very  gay  gentleman, 
and  great  hand  with  the  ladies, — not  a  man  more  in  the  world; 
so  I  had  the  opportunity  of  laming  what 's  what  among  the 
best  set, —  at  his  honor's  expense,  too,  augh!  To  my  mind, 
sir,  there  is  not  a  place  from  which  a  man  has  a  better  view 
of  things  than  the  bit  carpet  behind  a  gentleman's  chair.  The 
gentleman  eats  and  talks  and  swears  and  jests  and  plays  cards 
and  makes  love  and  tries  xo  cheat,  and  is  cheated,  and  his  man 
stands  behind  with  his  eyes  and  ears  open,  augh !  " 

"  One  should  go  into  service  to  learn  diplomacy,  I  see, "  said 
Walter,  greatly  amused. 

"Does  not  know  what  'plomacy  be,  sir,  but  knows  it  would 
be  better  for  many  a  young  master  nor  all  the  colleges, — 
would  not  be  so  many  bubbles  if  my  lord  could  take  a  turn 
now  and  then  with  John.  A  well,  sir,  how  I  used  to  laugh 
in  my  sleeve  like,  when  I  saw  my  master,  who  was  thought 
the  knowingest  gentleman  about  court,  taken  in  every  day 
smack  afore  my  face.  There  was  one  lady  whom  he  had  tried 
hard,  as  he  thought,  to  get  away  from  her  husband;  and  he 
used  to  be  so  mighty  pleased  at  every  glance  from  her  brown 
eyes, —  and  be  d — d  to  them! — and  so  careful  the  husband 
should  not  see,  so  pluming  himself  on  his  discretion  here, 
and  his  conquest  there,  when.  Lord  bless  you,  it  was  all  set- 
tled 'twixt  man  and  wife  aforehand!  And  while  the  colonel 
laughed  at  the  cuckold,  the  cuckold  laughed  at  the  dupe.    For 


EUGENE   ARAM.  249 

you  sees,  sir,  as  how  the  colonel  was  a  rich  man,  and  the 
jewels  as  he  bought  for  the  lady  went  half  into  the  husband's 
pocket,  he!  he!  That's  the  way  of  the  world,  sir;  that's  the 
way  of  the  world !  " 

"  Upon  my  word,  you  draw  a  very  bad  picture  of  the  world ; 
you  color  highly.  And  by  the  way,  I  observe  that  whenever 
you  find  any  man  committing  a  roguish  action,  instead  of  call- 
ing him  a  scoundrel,  you  show  those  great  teeth  of  yovirs  and 
chuckle  out,  'A  man  of  the  world!  a  man  of  the  world!  '  " 

"To  be  sure,  your  honor;  the  proper  name  too.  'T  is  your 
greenhorns  who  fly  into  a  passion  and  use  hard  words.  You 
see,  sir,  there  's  one  thing  we  larn  afore  all  other  things  in 
the  world, —  to  butter  bread.  Knowledge  of  others  means 
only  the  knowledge  which  side  bread  's  buttered.  In  short, 
sir,  the  wiser  grow,  the  more  take  care  of  oursels.  Some  per- 
sons make  a  mistake,  and  in  trying  to  take  care  of  themsels, 
run  neck  into  halter.  Baugh!  they  are  not  rascals,  they  are 
would-be  men  of  the  world.  Others  be  more  prudent  (for,  as  I 
said  afore,  sir,  discretion  is  a  pair  of  stirrups), —  they  be  the 
true  men  of  the  world." 

"I  should  have  thought,"  said  Walter,  "that  the  knowledge 
of  the  world  might  be  that  knowledge  which  preserves  us 
from  being  cheated,  but  not  that  which  enables  us  to  cheat." 

"  Augh !  "  quoth  the  corporal,  with  that  sort  of  smile  with 
which  you  see  an  old  philosopher  put  down  a  high-sounding 
error  from  a  young  disciple  who  flatters  himself  he  has  ut- 
tered something  prodigiously  fine, —  "augh!  and  did  I  not  tell 
you,  t'  other  day,  to  look  at  the  professions,  your  honor  ? 
What  would  a  laryer  be  if  he  did  not  know  how  to  cheat  a 
witness  and  humbug  a  jury  ?  Knows  he  is  lying.  Why  is 
he  lying  ?  For  love  of  his  fees,  or  his  fame  like,  which  gets 
fees.  Augh!  is  not  that  cheating  others?  The  doctor,  too, 
—  Master  Fillgrave,  for  instance  ?  " 

"Say  no  more  of  doctors;  I  abandon  them  to  your  satire, 
without  a  word." 

"The  lying  knaves!  Don't  they  say  one  's  well  when  one  's 
ill, —  ill  when  one's  well?  Profess  to  know  what  don't 
know  ?     Thrust  solemn  phizzes  into  every  abomination,  as  if 


250  EUGENE  ARAM. 

laming   la}'-   hid    in    a ?    and   all   for   their   neighbor's 

money,  or  their  own  reputation,  which  makes  money,  augh! 
In  short,  sir,  look  where  will,  impossible  to  see  so  much 
cheating  allowed,  praised,  encouraged,  and  feel  very  angry 
with  a  cheat  who  has  only  made  a  mistake.  But  when  I  sees 
a  man  butter  his  bread  carefully, —  knife  steady,  butter  thick, 
and  hungry  fellows  looking  on  and  licking  chops,  mothers 
stopping  their  brats,  '  See,  child,  respectable  man,  how  thick 
his  bread  's  buttered!  pull  off  your  hat  to  him,' — when  I  sees 
tliat,  my  heart  warms;  tliere 's  the  true  man  of  the  world, 
augh ! " 

"Well,  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  laughing,  "though  you  are 
tlius  lenient  to  those  unfortunate  gentlemen  whom  others  call 
rogues,  and  thus  laudatory  of  gentlemen  who  are  at  best  dis- 
creetly selfish,  I  suppose  you  admit  the  possibility  of  virtue, 
and  your  heart  warms  as  much  when  you  see  a  man  of  worth 
as  when  you  see  a  man  of  the  world  ?  " 

"Why,  you  knows,  your  honor,"  answered  the  corporal,  "so 
far  as  vartue  's  concerned,  tliere  's  a  deal  in  constitution;  but 
as  for  knowledge  of  the  world,  one  gets  it  oneself!  " 

"I  don't  wonder,  Bunting,  as  your  opinion  of  women  is 
much  the  same  as  your  opinion  of  men,  that  you  are  still 
unmarried." 

"Augh!  but  your  honor  mistakes ;  lam  no  mice-and-trope. 
Men  are  neither  one  thing  nor  t'  otlier,  neither  good  nor  bad. 
A  prudent  parson  has  nothing  to  fear  from  'em,  nor  a  foolish 
one  anything  to  gain,  baugh !  As  to  the  women  creturs,  your 
honor,  as  I  said,  vartue  's  a  deal  in  the  constitution.  Would 
not  ask  what  a  lassie's  mind  be,  nor  what  her  eddycation,  but 
see  what  her  habits  be,  that's  all, —  habits  and  constitution 
all  one;  play  into  one  another's  hands." 

"  And  what  sort  of  signs,  Bunting,  would  you  mostly  esteem 
in  a  lady  ?  " 

"  First  place,  sir,  woman  I  'd  marry  must  not  mope  when 
alone;  must  be  able  to  'muse  herself,  must  be  easily  'mused. 
That 's  a  great  sign,  sir,  of  an  innocent  mind,  to  be  tickled 
with  straws.  Besides,  employment  keeps  'em  out  of  harm's 
way.     Second  place,  should  obsarve  if  she  was  very  fond  of 


EUGENE   ARAM.  251 

places,  your  honor, —  sorry  to  move;  that's  a  sure  sign  she 
won't  tire  easily,  but  that  if  she  like  you  now  from  fancy, 
she  '11  like  you  by  and  by  from  custom.  Thirdly,  your  honor, 
she  should  not  be  avarse  to  dress, —  a  leaning  tliat  way  shows 
she  has  a  desire  to  please;  people  who  don't  care  about  pleas- 
ing always  sullen.  Fourthly,  she  must  bear  to  be  crossed, — 
I  'd  be  quite  sure  that  she  might  be  contradicted,  without 
mumping  or  storming  ;  'cause  then,  you  knows,  your  honor, 
if  she  wanted  anything  expensive,  need  not  give  it,  augh! 
Fifthly,  must  not  set  up  for  a  saint,  your  honor.  They  pye- 
house  she-creaturs  always  thinks  themsels  so  much  better  nor 
we  men,  —  don't  understand  our  language  and  ways,  your 
honor;  they  wants  us  not  only  to  belave,  but  to  tremble, 
bother!" 

"I  like  your  description  well  enough  on  the  whole,"  said 
Walter,  "  and  when  I  look  out  for  a  wife  I  shall  come  to  you 
for  advice." 

"Your  honor  may  have  it  already, —  Miss  EUinor 's  jist 
the  thing." 

"Walter  turned  away  his  head,  and  told  Bunting,  with  great 
show  of  indignation,  not  to  be  a  fool. 

The  corporal,  who  was  not  quite  certain  of  his  ground  here, 
but  who  knew  that  Madeline,  at  all  events,  was  going  to  be 
married  to  Aram,  and  deemed  it,  therefore,  quite  useless  to 
waste  any  praise  upon  her,  thought  that  a  few  random  shots 
of  eulogium  were  worth  throwing  away  on  a  chance,  and  con- 
sequently continued, — 

"Augh,  your  honor,  'tis  not  'cause  I  have  eyes  that  I  he's 
a  fool.  Miss  Ellinor  and  your  honor  be  only  cousins,  to  be 
sure;  but  more  like  brother  and  sister  nor  anything  else. 
Howsomever,  she's  a  rare  cretur,  whoever  gets  her, —  has  a 
face  that  puts  one  in  good  humor  with  the  world,  if  one  sees 
it  first  thing  in  the  morning;  'tis  as  good  as  the  sun  in  July, 
augh!  But,  as  I  was  saying,  your  honor,  'bout  the  women 
creturs  in  general  —  " 

"Enough  of  them,  Bunting!  Let  us  suppose  you  have  been 
so  fortunate  as  to  find  one  to  suit  you,  —  how  would  you  woo 
her  ?     Of  course  there  are  certain  secrets  of  courtship  which 


252  EUGENE   ARAM. 

you  will  not  hesitate  to  impart  to  one  who,  like  me,  wants 
such  assistance  from  art, —  much  more  than  you  can  do,  who 
are  so  bountifully  favored  by  nature." 

"As  to  nature,"  replied  the  corporal,  with  considerable 
modesty,  for  he  never  disputed  the  truth  of  the  compliment, 
*'  'tis  not  'cause  a  man  be  six  feet  without 's  shoes  that  he  's 
any  nearer  to  lady's  heart.  Sir,  I  will  own  to  you  —  how- 
somever  it  makes  'gainst  your  honor,  and  myself  for  that 
matter  —  that  don't  think  one  is  a  bit  more  lucky  with  the 
ladies  for  being  so  handsome,  'T  is  all  very  well  with  them 
'ere  willing  ones,  your  honor,  —  caught  at  a  glance;  but  as  for 
the  better  sort,  one's  beauty's  all  bother!  Why,  sir,  when 
we  see  some  of  the  most  fortunatest  men  among  she-creturs, 
what  poor  little  minnikens  they  be !  One  's  a  dwarf,  another 
knock-kneed,  a  third  sqviints,  and  a  fourth  might  be  shown 
for  a  Aape!  Neither,  sir,  is  it  your  soft,  insinivating,  die- 
away  youths,  as  seem  at  first  so  seductive ;  they  do  very  well 
for  lovers,  your  honor,  but  then  it's  always  —  rejected  ones! 
Neither,  your  honor,  does  the  art  of  succeeding  with  the  ladies 
'quire  all  those  finnikin  nimini-pinimis,  flourishes  and  maxims 
and  saws,  which  the  colonel,  my  old  master,  and  the  great 
gentlefolks,  as  be  knowing,  call  the  art  of  love,  baugh !  The 
whole  science,  sir,  consists  in  these  two  rules:  'Ax  soon,  and 
ax  often. ' " 

"There  seems  no  great  difficulty  in  them,  Bunting." 

"Not  to  us  who  has  gumption,  sir;  but  then  there  is  sum- 
mut  in  the  manner  of  axing, —  one  can't  be  too  hot ;  can't 
flatter  too  much;  and,  above  all,  one  must  never  take  a  refu- 
sal. There,  sir,  now,  if  you  takes  my  advice  may  break  the 
peace  of  all  the  husbands  in  Lunnon;  bother,  whaugh!  " 

"  My  imcle  little  knows  what  a  praiseworthy  tutor  he  has 
secured  me  in  you.  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  laughing;  "and 
now,  while  the  road  is  so  good,  let  us  make  the  most  of  it." 

As  they  had  set  out  late  in  the  day,  and  the  corporal  was 
fearful  of  another  attack  from  a  hedge,  he  resolved  that  about 
evening  one  of  the  horses  should  be  seized  with  a  sudden 
lameness  (which  he  effected  by  slyly  inserting  a  stone  be- 
tween the  shoe  and  the  hoof)  that  required  immediate  atten- 


EUGENE   ARAM.  253 

tion  and  a  night's  rest;  so  that  it  was  not  till  the  early  nooii 
of  the  next  day  that  our  travellers  entered  the  village  in  which 
Mr.  Jonas  Elmore  resided. 

It  was  a  soft,  tranquil  day,  though  one  of  the  very  last  in 
October;  for  the  reader  Avill  remember  that  time  had  not 
stood  still  during  Walter's  submission  to  the  care  of  Mr.  Per- 
tinax  Fillgrave  and  his  subsequent  journey  and  researches. 

The  sunlight  rested  on  a  broad  patch  of  green  heath  covered 
with  furze,  and  around  it  were  scattered  the  cottages  and  farm- 
houses of  the  little  village.  On  the  other  side,  as  Walter  de- 
scended the  gentle  hill  that  led  into  this  remote  hamlet,  wide 
and  flat  meadows,  interspersed  with  several  fresh  and  shaded 
ponds,  stretched  away  towards  a  belt  of  rich  woodland  gor- 
geous with  the  melancholy  pomp  by  which  the  "regal  year" 
seeks  to  veil  its  decay.  Among  these  meadows  you  might 
now  see  groups  of  cattle  quietly  grazing,  or  standing  half  hid 
in  the  still  and  sheltered  pools.  Still  farther,  crossing  to  the 
woods,  a  solitary  sportsman  walked  careless  on,  surrounded 
by  some  half-a-dozen  spaniels;  and  the  shrill  small  tongue  of 
one  younger  straggler  of  the  canine  crew,  who  had  broken 
indecorously  from  the  rest  and  already  entered  the  wood, 
might  be  just  heard,  softened  down  by  the  distance,  into  a 
wild,  cheery  sound,  that  animated,  without  disturbing,  the 
serenity  of  the  scene. 

"Aft^r  all,"  said  Walter  aloud,  "the  scholar  was  right, — 
there  is  nothing  like  the  country! 

"  '  Oh,  happiness  of  sweet,  retired  content, 
To  be  at  once  secure  and  innocent ! '  " 

"  Be  them  verses  in  the  Psalms,  sir  ?  "  said  the  corporal, 
who  was  close  behind. 

"  No,  Bunting,  but  they  were  written  by  one  who,  if  I  rec- 
ollect right,  set  the  Psalms  to  verse.'^  I  hope  they  meet  with 
your  approbation  ?  " 

"Indeed,  sir,  and  no,  since  they  be  n't  in  the  Psalms." 

"  And  why,  Mr.  Critic  ?  " 

"  'Cause  what  's  the  use  of  security  if  one  's  innocent,  and 

1  Denhara. 


254  EUGENE  ARAM. 

does  not  mean  to  take  advantage  of  it  ?  Baugn !  One  does 
not  lock  tlie  door  for  nothing,  your  honor! " 

"  You  shall  enlarge  on  that  honest  doctrine  of  yours  another 
time;  meanwhile,  call  that  shepherd  and  ask  the  way  to  Mr. 
Elmore's." 

The  corporal  obeyed,  and  found  that  a  clump  of  trees,  at  the 
farther  corner  of  the  waste  land,  was  the  grove  that  surrounded 
Mr.  Elmore's  house.  A  short  canter  across  the  heath  brought 
them  to  a  white  gate,  and  having  passed  this,  a  comfortable 
brick  mansion,  of  moderate  size,  stood  before  them. 


CHAPTER    III. 

A    SCHOLAR,    BUT    OF    A    DIFFERENT    MOULD  FROM  THE  STUDENT 

OF    GRASSDALE. NEW    PARTICULARS    CONCERNING    GEOFFREY 

LESTER. THE    JOURNEY    RECOMMENCED. 

Insenuitque 
Libris.i  —  Horace. 

Volat,  ambiguis 
Mobilis  alis,  Hora.^  —  Seneca. 

Upon  inquiring  for  Mr.  Elmore,  Walter  was  shown  into  a 
handsome  library  that  appeared  well  stocked  with  books  of 
that  good  old-fashioned  size  and  solidity  which  are  now  fast 
passing  from  the  world,  or  at  least  shrinking  into  old  shops 
and  public  collections.  The  time  may  come  when  the  moul- 
dering remains  of  a  folio  will  attract  as  much  philosophical 
astonishment  as  the  bones  of  the  mammoth.  For  behold,  the 
deluge  of  writers  hath  produced  a  new  world  of  small  octavo; 
and  in  the  next  generation,  thanks  to  the  popular  libraries, 
we  shall  only  vibrate  between  the  duodecimo  and  the  diamond 
edition.  Nay,  we  foresee  the  time  when  a  very  handsome  col- 
lection may  be  carried  about  in  one's  waistcoat  pocket,  and  a 

1  "  And  he  hath  grown  old  in  books." 

2  "Time  flies,  still  moving  on  uncertain  wing." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  255 

whole  library  of  the  British  Classics  be  neatly  arranged  in  a 
well-compacted  snuff-box. 

In  a  few  minutes  Mr.  Elmore  made  his  appearance.  He 
was  a  short,  well-built  man,  about  the  age  of  fifty.  Contrary 
to  the  established  mode,  he  wore  no  wig,  and  was  very  bald, 
except  at  the  sides  of  the  head,  and  a  little  circular  island  of 
hair  in  the  centre.  But  this  defect  was  rendered  the  less 
visible  by  a  profusion  of  powder.  He  was  dressed  with  evi- 
dent care  and  precision.  A  snuff-colored  coat  was  adorned 
with  a  respectable  profusion  of  gold  lace ;  his  breeches  were 
of  plum-colored  satin;  his  salmon-colored  stockings,  scrupu- 
lously drawn  up,  displayed  a  very  handsome  calf;  and  a  pair 
of  steel  buckles,  in  his  high-heeled  and  square-toed  shoes, 
were  polished  into  a  lustre  which  almost  rivalled  the  splendor 
of  diamonds.  Mr.  Jonas  Elmore  was  a  beau,  a  wit,  and  a 
scholar  of  the  old  school.  He  abounded  in  jests,  in  quota- 
tions, in  smart  sayings  and  pertinent  anecdotes ;  but,  withal, 
his  classical  learning  (out  of  the  classics  he  knew  little  enough) 
was  at  once  elegant  but  wearisome,  pedantic  but  profound. 

To  this  gentleman  Walter  presented  a  letter  of  introduction 
which  he  had  obtained  from  a  distinguished  clergyman  in 
York.     Mr.  Elmore  received  it  with  a  profound  salutation. 

"Aha!  from  my  friend  Dr.  Hebraist,"  said  he,  glancing  at 
the  seal, —  "  a  most  worthy  man  and  a  ripe  scholar.  I  presume 
at  once,  sir,  from  his  introduction  that  you  yourself  have  cul- 
tivated the  literas  hmnaniores.  Pray  sit  down.  Ay,  I  see, 
jow  take  up  a  book,  —  an  excellent  symptom;  it  gives  me  an 
immediate  insight  into  your  character.  But  you  have  chanced, 
sir,  on  light  reading, —  one  of  the  Greek  novels,  I  think-,  you 
must  not  judge  of  my  studies  by  such  a  specimen." 

"Nevertheless,  sir,  it  does  not  seem  to  my  unskilful  eye 
very  easy  Greek." 

"Pretty  well,  sir;  barbarous,  but  amusing,  —  pray  continue 
it.  The  triumphal  entry  of  Paulus  Emilius  is  not  ill  told.  I 
confess  that  I  think  novels  might  be  made  much  higher  works 
than  they  have  been  yet.  Doubtless  you  remember  what 
Aristotle  says  concerning  painters  and  sculptors,  'That  they 
teach  and  recommend  virtue  in  a  more  efficacious  and  power- 


256  EUGENE   ARAM. 

ful  manner  than  philosophers  by  their  dry  precepts,  and  are 
more  capable  of  amending  the  vicious  than  the  best  moral  les- 
sons without  such  aid.'  But  how  much  more,  sir,  can  a  good 
novelist  do  this  than  the  best  sculptor  or  painter  in  the  world! 
Every  one  can  be  charmed  by  a  fine  novel,  few  by  a  fine  paint- 
ing. '  Docti  rationem  artis  intelligunt,  indocti  voluptatem. '  ^ 
A  happy  sentence  that  in  Quintilian,  sir,  is  it  not  ?  But, 
bless  me,  I  am  forgetting  the  letter  of  my  good  friend  Dr. 
Hebraist.  The  charms  of  your  conversation  carry  me  away. 
And,  indeed,  I  have  seldom  the  happiness  to  meet  a  gentle- 
man so  well-informed  as  yourself.  I  confess,  sir,  I  confess 
that  I  still  retain  the  tastes  of  my  boyhood;  the  Muses  cradled 
my  childhood, — they  now  smooth  the  pillow  on  my  footstool, 
— 'Quern  tu,  Melpomene  '  etc.  You  are  not  yet  subject  to 
gout,  —  dira  podagra.  By  the  way,  how  is  the  worthy  doctor 
since  his  attack  ?  Ah !  see  now,  if  you  have  not  still,  by  your 
delightful  converse,  kept  me  from  his  letter.  Yet,  positively 
I  need  no  introduction  to  you ;  Apollo  has  already  presented 
you  to  me.  And  as  for  the  Doctor's  letter,  I  will  read  it  after 
dinner;  for,  as  Seneca  —  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon  a  thousand  times,  sir,"  said  Walter, 
who  began  to  despair  of  ever  coming  to  the  matter,  which 
seemed  lost  sight  of  beneath  this  battery  of  erudition;  "but 
you  will  find  by  Dr.  Hebraist's  letter  that  it  is  only  on  busi- 
ness of  the  utmost  importance  that  I  have  presumed  to  break 
in  upon  the  learned  leisure  of  Mr.  Jonas  Elmore." 

"  Business !  "  replied  Mr.  Elmore,  producing  his  spectacles, 
and  deliberately  placing  them  athwart  his  nose, — 

" '  His  mane  edictum,  post  prandia  Callirhoen,'  etc. 

Business  in  the  morning,  and  the  ladies  after  dinner.  Well, 
sir,  I  will  yield  to  you  in  the  one,  and  you  must  yield  to  me 
in  the  other;  I  will  open  the  letter,  and  you  shall  dine  here 
and  be  introduced  to  Mrs.  Elmore.  What  is  your  opinion  of 
the  modern  method  of  folding  letters  ?  I  —  But  I  see  you 
are  impatient."  Here  Mr.  Elmore  at  length  broke  the  seal, 
and  to  Walter's  great  joy  fairly  read  the  contents  within. 

1  "  The  learned  understand  the  reason  of  art,  the  unlearned  the  pleasure." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  257 

"Oh!  I  see,  I  see,"  he  said,  refolding  the  epistle  and  plac- 
ing it  in  his  pocket-book;  "my  friend  Dr.  Hebraist  says  you 
are  anxious  to  be  informed  whether  Mr.  Clarke  ever  received 
the  legacy  of  my  poor  cousin,  Colonel  Elmore,  and  if  so,  any 
tidings  I  can  give  you  of  Mr.  Clarke  himself,  or  any  clew  to 
discover  him,  will  be  highly  acceptable.  I  gather,  sir,  from 
my  friend's  letter  tliat  this  is  the  substance  of  your  business 
with  me, —  cajxut  negotii;  although,  like  Timanthes  the  painter, 
he  leaves  more  to  be  understood  than  is  described,  'intelligitur 
plus  quam  pingitur, '  as  Pliny  has  it." 

"Sir,"  says  Walter,  drawing  his  chair  close  to  Mr.  Elmore, 
and  his  anxiety  forcing  itself  to  his  countenance,  "that  is 
indeed  the  substance  of  my  business  with  you;  and  so  impor- 
tant will  be  any  information  you  can  give  me  that  I  shall 
esteem  it  a  —  " 

"Not  a  very  great  favor,  eh,  —  not  very  great  ?  " 

"Yes,  indeed,  a  very  great  obligation." 

"I  hope  not,  sir;  for  Avhat  says  Tacitus,  that  profound 
reader  of  the  human  heart?  'Beneficia  eo  usque  Isetasunt, ' 
etc., —  favors  easily  repaid  beget  affection, —  favors  beyond  re- 
turn engender  hatred.'  But,  sir,  a  truce  to  trifling;"  and 
here  Mr.  Elmore  composed  his  countenance  and  changed  — 
which  he  could  do  at  will,  so  that  the  change  was  not  expected 
to  last  long  —  the  pedant  for  the  man  of  business. 

"Mr.  Clarke  did  receive  his  legacy;  the  lease  of  the  house 
at  Knaresborough  was  also  sold  by  his  desire,  and  produced 
the  sum  of  seven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  —  which  being 
added  to  the  further  sum  of  a  thousand  pounds,  which  was 
bequeathed  to  him,  amounted  to  seventeen  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds.  It  so  happened  that  my  cousin  had  possessed  some 
very  valuable  jewels,  which  were  bequeathed  to  myself.  I, 
sir,  studious  and  a  cultivator  of  the  Muse,  had  no  love  and 
no  use  for  these  baubles,  —  I  preferred  barbaric  gold  to  bar- 
baric pearl;  and  knowing  that  Clarke  had  been  in  India, 
whence  these  jewels  had  been  brought,  I  showed  them  to  him 
and  consulted  his  knowledge  on  these  matters,  as  to  the  best 
method  of  obtaining  a  sale.  He  offered  to  purchase  them  of 
me,  under  the  impression  that  he  could  turn  them  to  a  profita- 

17 


258  EUGENE   ARAM. 

ble  speculation  in  London.  Acccordingly  we  came  to  terms : 
I  sold  the  greater  part  of  them  to  him  for  a  sum  a  little  ex- 
ceeding a  thousand  pounds.  He  was  pleased  with  his  bar- 
gain, and  came  to  borrow  the  rest  of  me,  in  order  to  look  at 
them  more  considerately  at  home,  and  determine  whether  or 
not  he  should  buy  them  also.  Well,  sir  (but  here  comes  the 
remarkable  part  of  the  story),  about  three  days  after  this  last 
event  Mr.  Clarke  and  my  jewels  both  disappeared  in  rather  a 
strange  and  abrupt  manner.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  he 
left  his  lodging  at  Knaresborough  and  never  returned;  neither 
himself  nor  my  jewels  were  ever  heard  of  more." 

"  Good  heavens ! "  exclaimed  Walter,  greatly  agitated ; 
*'  what  was  supposed  to  be  the  cause  of  his  disappearance  ?  " 

"That,"  replied  Elmore,  "was  never  positively  traced.  It 
excited  great  surprise  and  great  conjecture  at  the  time.  Ad- 
vertisements and  handbills  were  circulated  throughout  the 
country,  but  in  vain.  Mr.  Clarke  was  evidently  a  man  of 
eccentric  habits,  of  a  hasty  temper,  and  a  wandering  manner 
of  life ;  yet  it  is  scarcely  probable  that  he  took  this  sudden 
manner  of  leaving  the  country  either  from  whim  or  some  SC' 
cret  but  honest  motive  never  divulged.  The  fact  is  that  he 
owed  a  few  debts  in  the  town,  that  he  had  my  jewels  in  his 
possession,  and  as  (pardon  me  for  saying  this,  since  you  take 
an  interest  in  him)  his  connections  were  entirely  unknown 
in  these  parts,  and  his  character  not  very  highly  estimated, 
— whether  from  his  manner,  or  his  conversation,  or  some  un- 
defined and  vague  rumors,  I  cannot  say, —  it  was  considered 
by  no  means  improbable  that  he  had  decamped  with  his  prop- 
erty in  this  sudden  manner  in  order  to  save  himself  that 
trouble  of  settling  accounts  which  a  more  seemly  and  public 
method  of  departure  might  have  rendered  necessary.  A  man 
of  the  name  of  Houseman,  with  whom  he  was  acquainted  (a 
resident  in  Knaresborough),  declared  that  Clarke  had  borrowed 
rather  a  considerable  sum  from  him,  and  did  not  scruple 
openly  to  accuse  him  of  the  evident  design  to  avoid  repay- 
ment. A  few  more  dark  but  utterly  groundless  conjectures 
were  afloat;  and  since  the  closest  search,  the  minutest  inquiry, 
"was  employed  without   any   result,   the  supposition  that  he 


EUGENE   ARAM.  259 

might  have  been  robbed  and  murdered  wns  strongly  enter- 
tained for  some  time.  But  as  his  body  was  never  found,  nor 
suspicion  directed  against  any  particular  person,  these  con- 
jectures insensibly  died  away ;  and  being  so  coiiiplete  a  stranger 
to  these  parts,  the  very  circumstance  of  his  disappearance  was 
not  likely  to  occupy,  for  very  long,  the  attention  of  that  old 
gossip  the  Public,  who,  even  in  the  remotest  parts,  has  a 
thousand  topics  to  fill  up  her  time  and  talk.  And  now,  sir,  I 
think  you  know  as  much  of  the  particulars  of  the  case  as  any 
one  in  these  parts  can  inform  you." 

We  may  imagine  the  various  sensations  which  this  unsat- 
isfactory intelligence  caused  in  the  adventurous  son  of  the  lost 
wanderer.  He  continued  to  throw  out  additional  guesses,  and 
to  make  further  inquiries  concerning  a  tale  which  seemed  to 
him  so  mysterious,  but  without  effect;  and  he  had  the  morti- 
fication to  perceive  that  the  shrewd  Jonas  was,  in  his  own 
mind,  fully  convinced  that  the  permanent  disappearance  of 
Clarke  was  accounted  for  only  by  the  most  dishonest  motives. 

"And,"  added  Elmore,  "lam  confirmed  in  this  belief  by 
discovering  afterwards,  from  a  tradesman  in  York  who  had 
seen  my  cousin's  jewels,  that  those  I  had  trusted  to  Mr. 
Clarke's  hands  were  more  valuable  than  I  had  imagined  them, 
and  therefore  it  was  probably  worth  his  while  to  make  off 
with  them  as  quietly  as  possible.  He  went  on  foot,  leaving 
his  horse,  a  sorry  nag,  to  settle  with  me  and  the  other 
claimants :  — 

" '  I,  pedes  quo  te  rapiunt  et  aurae ! ' "  ^ 

"Heavens!"  thought  Walter,  sinking  back  in  his  chair 
sickened  and  disheartened,  "  what  a  parent,  if  the  opinions  of 
all  men  who  knew  him  be  true,  do  I  thus  zealously  seek  to 
recover! " 

The  good-natured  Elmore,  perceiving  the  unwelcome  and 
painful  impression  his  account  had  produced  on  his  young 
guest,  now  exerted  himself  to  remove,  or  at  least  to  lessen  it; 
and  turning  the  conversation  into  a  classical  channel,  which 
with   him  was  the  Lethe  to  all  cares,   he  soon  forgot  that 

1  "  Go,  where  your  feet  and  fortune  take  you." 


260  EUGENE   ARAM. 

Clarke  had  ever  existed,  in  expatiating  on  the  unappreciated 
excellences  of  Propertius,  who,  to  his  mind,  was  the  most 
tender  of  all  elegiac  poets,  solely  because  he  was  the  most 
learned.  Fortunately  this  vein  of  conversation,  however 
tedious  to  Walter,  preserved  him  from  the  necessity  of  re- 
joinder, and  left  him  to  the  quiet  enjoyment  of  his  own  gloomy 
and  restless  reflections. 

At  length  the  time  touched  upon  dinner.  Elmore,  starting 
up,  adjourned  to  the  drawing-room,  in  order  to  present  the 
handsome  stranger  to  the  placens  uxor,  the  pleasing  wife, 
whom,  in  passing  through  the  hall,  he  eulogized  with  an 
amazing  felicity  of  diction. 

The  object  of  these  praises  was  a  tall,  meagre  lady,  in  a 
yellow  dress  carried  up  to  the  chin,  and  who  added  a  slight 
squint  to  the  charms  of  red  hair  ill  concealed  by  powder,  and 
the  dignity  of  a  prodigiously  high  nose.  "There  is  nothing, 
sir,"  said  Elmore,  "nothing,  believe  me,  like  matrimonial 
felicity.  Julia,  my  dear,  1  trust  the  chickens  will  not  be 
overdone." 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Elmore,  I  cannot  tell;  I  did  not  boil  them." 

"Sir,"  said  Elmore,  turning  to  his  guest,  "I  do  not  know 
whether  you  will  agree  with  me,  but  I  think  a  slight  tendency 
to  gourmandism  is  absolutely  necessary  to  complete  the  char- 
acter of  a  truly  classical  mind.  So  many  beautiful  touches  are 
there  in  the  ancient  poets,  so  many  delicate  allusions  in  his- 
tory and  in  anecdote  relating  to  the  gratification  of  the  palate, 
that  if  a  man  have  no  correspondent  sympathy  with  the  illus- 
trious epicures  of  old,  he  is  rendered  incapable  of  enjoying 
the  most  beautiful  passages  that —  Come,  sir,  the  dinner  is 
served. 

"  '  Nutrimus  lautis  moUissima  corpora  mensis.' "  ^ 

As  they  crossed  the  hall  to  the  dining-room,  a  young  lady, 
whom  Elmore  hastily  announced  as  his  only  daughter,  appeared 
descending  the  stairs,  having  evidently  retired  for  the  purpose 
of  re-arranging  her  attire  for  the  conquest  of  the  stranger. 
There  was  something  in  INIiss  Elmore  that  reminded  Walter 

1  "  We  nourish  softest  bodies  at  luxurious  banquets." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  261 

of  Ellinor;  and  as  the  likeness  struck  him,  he  felt,  by  the 
sudden  and  involuntary  sigh  it  occasioned,  how  much  the 
image  of  his  cousin  had  lately  gained  ground  upon  his  heart. 

Nothing  of  any  note  occurred  during  dinner  until  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  second  course,  when  Elmore,  throwing  him- 
self back  with  an  air  of  content,  which  signified  that  the  first 
edge  of  his  appetite  was  blunted,  observed, — 

"  Sir,  the  second  course  I  always  opine  to  be  the  more  dig- 
nified and  rational  part  of  a  repast, — 

"  '  Quod  uuiii;  ratio  est,  impetus  ante  fuit.' "  ^ 

"Ah!  Mr,  Elmore,"  said  the  lady,  glancing  towards  a  brace 
of  very  fine  pigeons,  "  I  cannot  tell  you  how  vexed  I  am  at 
a  mistake  of  the  gardener.  You  remember  my  poor  pet  pig- 
eons, so  attached  to  each  other, —  would  not  mix  with  the  rest; 
quite  an  inseparable  friendship,  Mr.  Lester.  Well,  they  were 
killed,  by  mistake,  for  a  couple  of  vulgar  pigeons.  Ah!  I 
could  not  touch  a  bit  of  them  for  the  world." 

"My  love,"  said  Elmore,  pausing,  and  with  great  solemnity, 
**  hear  how  beautiful  a  consolation  is  aiforded  to  you  in  Vale- 
rius Maximus:  'Ubi  idem  et  maximus  et  honestissimus  amor 
est,  aliquando  praestat  morte  jungi  quam  vita  distrahi ! '  which 
being  interpreted,  means  that  wherever,  as  in  the  case  of  your 
pigeons,  a  thoroughly  high  and  sincere  affection  exists,  it  is 
sometimes  better  to  be  joined  in  death  than  divided  in  life. 
Give  me  half  the  fatter  one,  if  you  please,  Julia." 

"Sir,"  said  Elmore,  when  the  ladies  withdrew,  "I  cannot 
tell  you  how  pleased  I  am  to  meet  with  a  gentleman  so  deeply 
imbued  with  classic  lore.  I  remember,  several  years  ago,  be- 
fore my  poor  cousin  died,  it  was  my  lot,  when  I  visited  him 
at  Knaresborough,  to  hold  some  delightful  conversations  on 
learned  matters  with  a  very  rising  young  scholar  who  then 
resided  at  Knaresborough,  Eugene  Aram,  —  conversations  as 
difficult  to  obtain  as  delightful  to  remember,  for  he  was  ex- 
ceedingly reserved." 

"  Aram !  "  repeated  Walter. 

"  What,  you  know  him  then  ?  And  where  does  he  live 
now  ?  " 

1  "  That  which  is  now  reason,  at  first  was  but  desire." 


262  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"In ,  very  near  my  uncle's  residence.     He  is  certainly 

a  remarkable  man." 

"Yes,  indeed  he  promised  to  become  so.  At  the  time  I 
refer  to,  he  was  poor  to  penury,  and  haughty  as  poor;  but  it 
was  wonderful  to  note  the  iron  energy  with  which  he  pursued 
his  progress  to  learning.  Never  did  I  see  a  youth, —  at  that 
time  he  was  no  more, —  so  devoted  to  knowledge  for  itself. 

"  '  Doctrinae  pretium  triste  magister  habit.' ^ 

"Methinks,"  added  Elmore,  "I  can  see  him  now,  stealing 
away  from  the  haunts  of  men, — 

"  '  With  even  step  and  musing  gait,'  — 

across  the  quiet  fields  or  into  the  woods,  whence  he  was  cer- 
tain not  to  reappear  till  nightfall.  Ah!  he  was  a  strange  and 
solitary  being,  but  full  of  genius,  and  promise  of  bright  things 
hereafter.  I  have  often  heard  since  of  his  fame  as  a  scholar, 
but  could  never  learn  where  he  lived,  or  what  was  now  his 
mode  of  life.     Is  he  yet  married  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,  I  believe ;  but  he  is  not  now  so  absolutely  poor 
as  you  describe  him  to  have  been  then,  though  certainly  far 
from  rich." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  remember  that  he  received  a  legacy  from  a  re- 
lation shortly  before  he  left  Knaresborough.  He  had  very 
delicate  health  at  that  time :  has  he  grown  stronger  with  in- 
creasing years  ? " 

"He  does  not  complain  of  ill-health.  And,  pray,  was  he 
then  of  the  same  austere  and  blameless  habits  of  life  that  he 
now  professes  ?  " 

"Nothing  could  be  so  faultless  as  his  character  appeared; 
the  passions  of  youth  (ah!  I  was  a  wild  fellow  at  his  age) 
never  seemed  to  venture  near  one  — 

"  '  Quem  casto  erudit  docta  Minerva  sinu.'^ 

"Well,  I  am  surprised  he  has  not  married.  We  scholars, 
sir,  fall  in  love  with  abstractions,  and  fancy  the  first  woman 
"we  see  is —     Sir,  let  us  drink  '  The  ladies.'  " 

^  "  The  master  has  but  sorry  remuneration  for  his  teaching." 
2  "  Whom  wise  Minerva  taught  with  bosom  chaste." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  263 

The  next  day  Walter,  having  resolved  to  set  out  for  Knares- 
borough,  directed  his  course  towards  that  town ;  he  thought  it 
yet  possible  that  he  might,  by  strict  personal  inquiry,  con- 
tinue the  clew  that  Elmore's  account  had,  to  present  appear- 
ance, broken.  The  pursuit  in  which  he  was  engaged,  com- 
bined, perhaps,  with  the  early  disappointment  to  his  affections, 
had  given  a  grave  and  solemn  tone  to  a  mind  naturally  ardent 
and  elastic.  His  character  acquired  an  earnestness  and  a  dig- 
nity from  late  events ;  and  all  that  once  had  been  hope  within 
him  deepened  into  thought.  As  now,  on  a  gloomy  and  clouded 
day,  he  pursued  his  course  along  a  bleak  and  melancholy  road, 
his  mind  was  filled  with  that  dark  presentiment,  that  shadow 
from  the  coming  event  which  superstition  believes  the  herald 
of  the  more  tragic  discoveries  or  the  more  fearful  incidents 
of  life ;  he  felt  steeled  and  prepared  for  some  dread  denoue- 
ment to  a  journey  to  which  the  hand  of  Providence  seemed  to 
conduct  his  steps;  and  he  looked  on  the  shroud  that  Time 
casts  over  all  beyond  the  present  moment  with  the  same  in- 
tense and  painful  resolve  with  which,  in  the  tragic  represen- 
tations of  life,  we  await  the  drawing  up  of  the  curtain  before 
the  last  act,  which  contains  the  catastrophe  that,  while  we 
long,  we  half  shudder  to  behold. 

Meanwhile,  in  following  the  adventures  of  Walter  Lester 
we  have  greatly  outstripped  the  progress  of  events  at  Grass- 
dale,  and  thither  we  now  return. 


264  EUGENE  ARAM. 


CHAPTEE   IV. 


ARAM  S    DEPARTURE. MADELINE. EXAGGERATION    OF    SENTI- 
MENT NATURAL  IN  LOVE. —  Madeline's  letter. —  Walter's. 

THE    WALK. TWO    VERY    DIFFERENT    PERSONS,    YET    BOTH 

INMATES    OF    THE     SAME     COUNTRY     VILLAGE. THE     HUMORS 

OF  LIFE  AND   ITS   DARK   PASSIONS   ARE  FOUND   IN  JUXTAPOSI- 
TION   EVERYWHERE. 

Her  thoughts,  as  pure  as  the  chaste  Morning's  hreath 
When  from  the  Night's  cold  arms  it  creeps  away, 
Were  clothed  in  words. 

Sir  J.  Suckling  :  Detraction  Execrated. 

UrticiB  proxima  sa;pe  rosa  est.^  —  Ovid. 

"  You  positively  leave  us  then  to-day,  Eugene  ? "  said  the 
squire. 

"Indeed,"  answered  Aram,  "I  hear  from  my  creditor  (now 
no  longer  so,  thanks  to  you)  that  my  relation  is  so  dangerously 
ill  that,  if  I  have  any  wish  to  see  her  alive,  I  have  not  an 
hour  to  lose.  It  is  the  last  surviving  relative  I  have  in  the 
world." 

"I  can  say  no  more,  then,"  rejoined  the  squire,  shrugging 
his  shoulders.   "  When  do  you  expect  to  return  ?  " 

"At  least  before  the  day  fixed  for  the  wedding,"  answered 
Aram,  with  a  grave  and  melancholy  smile. 

"  Well,  can  you  find  time,  think  you,  to  call  at  the  lodging 
in  which  my  nephew  proposed  to  take  up  his  abode, —  my  old 
lodging;  I  will  give  you  the  address, —  and  inquire  if  Walter 
has  been  heard  of  there  ?  I  confess  that  I  feel  considerable 
alarm  on  his  account.  Since  that  short  and  hurried  letter 
which  I  read  to  you,  I  have  heard  nothing  of  him." 

"You  may  rely  on  my  seeing  him  if  in  London,  and  faith- 
fully reporting  to  you  all  that  I  can  learn  towards  removing 
your  anxiety." 

1  "  The  rose  is  often  nearest  to  the  nettle." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  265 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,— no  heart  is  so  kind  as  yours,  Eugene. 
You  will  not  depart  withovit  receiving  the  additional  sum  you 
are  entitled  to  claim  from  me,  since  you  think  it  may  be  use- 
ful to  you  in  London,  should  you  find  a  favorable  opportunity 
of  increasing  your  annuity.  And  now  I  will  no  longer  detain 
you  from  taking  your  leave  of  Madeline." 

The  plausible  story  which  Aram  had  invented  of  the  illness 
and  approaching  death  of  his  last  living  relation,  was  readily 
believed  by  the  simple  family  to  whom  it  was  told,  and  Made- 
line herself  checked  her  tears,  that  she  might  not,  for  his 
sake,  sadden  a  departure  that  seemed  inevitable.  Aram  ac- 
cordingly repaired  to  London  that  day,— the  one  that  followed 
the  night  which  witnessed  his  fearful  visit  to  the  Devil's 
Crag. 

It  is  precisely  at  this  part  of  my  history  that  I  love  to  pause 
for  a  moment,  —  a  sort  of  breathing  interval  between  the  cloud 
that  has  been  long  gathering,  and  the  storm  that  is  about  to 
burst.  And  this  interval  is  not  without  its  fleeting  gleam  of 
quiet  and  holy  sunshine. 

It  was  Madeline's  first  absence  from  her  lover  since  their 
vows  had  plighted  thera  to  each  other;  and  that  first  absence, 
when  softened  by  so  many  hopes  as  smiled  upon  her,  is  per- 
haps one  of  the  most  touching  passages  in  the  history  of  a 
woman's  love.  It  is  marvellous  how  many  things,  unheeded 
before,  suddenly  become  dear.  She  then  feels  what  a  power 
of  consecration  there  was  in  the  mere  presence  of  the  one 
beloved;  the  spot  he  touched,  the  book  he  read,  have  become 
a  part  of  him,  are  no  longer  inanimate,  are  inspired,  and  have 
a  being  and  a  voice.  And  the  heart,  too,  soothed  in  discov- 
ering so  many  new  treasures,  and  opening  so  delightful  a 
world  of  memory,  is  not  yet  acquainted  with  that  weariness, 
that  sense  of  exhaustion  and  solitude,  which  are  the  true 
pains  of  absence,  and  belong  to  the  absence,  not  of  hope,  but 
regret. 

"You  are  cheerful,  dear  Madeline,"  said  Ellinor,  "though 
you  did  not  think  it  possible,  and  he  not  here!  " 

"I  am  occupied,"  replied  Madeline,  "in  discovering  how 
much  I  loved  him." 


266  EUGENE   ARAM. 

We  do  wrong  when  we  censure  a  certain  exaggeration  in  tlie 
sentiments  of  those  we  love.  True  passion  is  necessarily 
heightened  by  its  very  ardor  to  an  elevation  that  seems  ex- 
travagant only  to  those  who  cannot  feel  it.  The  lofty  lan- 
guage of  a  hero  is  a  part  of  his  character;  without  that  large- 
ness of  idea  he  had  not  been  a  hero.  Witli  love  it  is  the 
same  as  with  glory:  what  common  minds  would  call  natural 
in  sentiment,  merely  because  it  is  homely,  is  not  natural, 
except  to  tamed  affections.  That  is  a  very  poor,  nay,  a  very 
coarse,  love,  in  which  the  imagination  makes  not  the  greater 
part ;  and  the  Frenchman  who  censured  the  love  of  his  mis- 
tress because  it  was  so  mixed  with  the  imagination,  quarrelled 
with  the  body  for  the  soul  which  inspired  and  preserved  it. 

Yet  we  do  not  say  that  Madeline  was  so  possessed  by  the 
confidence  of  her  love  that  she  did  not  admit  the  intrusion  of 
a  single  doubt  or  fear.  When  she  recalled  the  frequent  gloom 
and  moody  fitfulness  of  her  lover,  his  strange  and  mysterious 
communings  with  self,  the  sorrow  which,  at  times,  as  on  that 
Sabbath  eve  when  he  wept  upon  her  bosom,  appeared  suddenly 
to  come  upon  a  nature  so  calm  and  stately,  and  without  a  vis- 
ible cause,  —  when  she  recalled  all  these  symptoms  of  a  heart 
not  now  at  rest,  it  was  not  possible  for  her  to  reject  altogether 
a  certain  vague  and  dreary  apprehension.  Nor  did  she  her- 
self, although  to  Ellinor  she  so  affected,  ascribe  this  cloudi- 
ness and  caprice  of  mood  merely  to  the  result  of  a  solitary 
and  meditative  life;  she  attributed  them  to  the  influence  of 
an  early  grief,  perhaps  linked  with  the  affections,  and  did  not 
doubt  but  that  one  day  or  another  she  should  learn  the  secret. 
As  for  remorse,  the  memory  of  any  former  sin :  a  life  so  aus- 
terely blameless,  a  disposition  so  prompt  to  the  activity  of 
good  and  so  enamoured  of  its  beauty,  a  mind  so  cultivated,  a 
temper  so  gentle,  and  a  heart  so  easily  moved, —  all  would 
have  forbidden,  to  natures  far  more  suspicious  than  Made- 
line's, the  conception  of  such  a  thought.  And  so,  with  a  pa- 
tient gladness,  though  not  without  some  mixture  of  anxiety, 
she  suffered  herself  to  glide  onward  to  a  future  which,  come 
cloud,  come  shine,  was,  she  believed  at  least,  to  be  shared 
with  him. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  267 

On  looking  over  the  various  papers  from  which  I  have  woven 
this  tale,  I  find  a  letter  from  Madeline  to  Aram  dated  at  this 
time.  The  characters,  traced  in  the  delicate  and  fair  Italian 
hand  coveted  at  that  period,  are  fading,  and  in  one  part  wholly 
obliterated  by  time ;  but  there  seems  to  me  so  much  of  what 
is  genuine  in  the  heart's  beautiful  romance  in  this  effusion 
that  I  will  lay  it  before  the  reader  without  adding  or  altering 
a  word :  — 

Thank  you,  thank  you,  dearest  Eugene  I  I  have  received,  then,  the 
first  letter  you  ever  wrote  me.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  strange  it  seemed 
to  me,  and  how  agitated  I  felt  on  seeing  it,  — more  so,  I  think,  than  if  it 
had  been  yourself  who  had  returned.  However,  when  the  first  delight 
of  reading  it  faded  away,  I  found  that  it  had  not  made  me  so  happy  as 
it  ought  to  have  done,  —  as  I  thought  at  first  it  had  done.  You  seem 
sad  and  melancholy  ;  a  certain  nameless  gloom  appears  to  me  to  hang 
over  your  whole  letter.  It  affects  my  spirits,- — why,  I  know  not, — 
and  my  tears  fall  even  while  I  read  the  assurances  of  your  unaltered, 
unalterable  love  ;  and  yet  this  assurance  your  IMadeline  —  vain  girl !  — 
never  for  a  moment  disbelieves.  I  have  often  read  and  often  heard  of 
the  distrust  and  jealousy  that  accompany  love ;  but  I  think  that  such  a 
love  must  be  a  vulgar  and  low  sentiment.  To  me  there  seems  a  religion 
in  love,  and  its  very  foundation  is  in  faith.  You  say,  dearest,  that  the 
noise  and  the  stir  of  the  great  city  oppress  and  weary  you  even  more 
than  )'ou  had  expected.  You  say  those  harsh  faces,  in  which  business 
and  care  and  avarice  and  ambition  write  their  lineaments,  are  wholly 
unfamiliar  to  you  ;  you  turn  aside  to  avoid  them ;  you  wrap  yourself  up 
in  your  solitary  feelings  of  aversion  to  those  you  see,  and  you  call  upon 
those  not  present,  —  upon  your  Madeline  I  And  would  that  your  Made- 
line were  with  you !  It  seems  to  me  —  perhaps  you  will  smile  when  I 
say  this  —  that  I  alone  can  understand  you,  I  alone  can  read  your  heart 
and  your  emotions ;  and  oh !  dearest  Eugene,  that  I  could  read  also 
enough  of  your  past  history  to  know  all  that  has  cast  so  habitual  a 
shadow  over  that  lofty  heart  and  that  calm  and  profound  nature  !  You 
smile  when  I  ask  you ;  but  sometimes  you  sigh,  and  the  sigh  pleases  and 
sootlies  me  better  than  the  smile.   .   .   . 

We  have  heard  nothing  more  of  "Walter,  and  my  father  continues  to 
be  seriously  alarmed  about  hira.  Your  account  too  corroborates  that 
alarm.  It  is  strange  that  he  has  not  yet  visited  London,  and  that  you 
can  obtain  no  clew  of  him.  He  is  evidently  still  in  search  of  his  lost 
parent,  and  following  some  obscure  and  uncertain  track.     Poor  AY  alter, 


268  EUGENE   ARAM. 

God  speed  him !  The  singuhir  fate  of  his  father,  and  the  many  conjee- 
tures  respecting  him,  have,  I  IjeUeve,  preyed  on  Walter's  mind  more  than 
he  acknowledged.  Ellinor  found  a  paper  in  his  closet,  where  we  had 
occasion  to  search  the  other  day  for  something  belonging  to  my  father, 
which  was  scribbled  with  all  the  various  fragments  of  guess  or  informa- 
tion concerning  my  uncle,  obtained  from  time  to  time,  and  interspersed 
with  some  remarks  by  Walter  himself  that  affected  me  strangely.  It 
seems  to  have  been,  from  early  childhood,  the  one  desire  of  my  cousin  to 
discover  his  father's  fate.  Perhaps  the  discovery  may  be  already  made ; 
perhaps  my  long-lost  uncle  may  yet  be  present  at  our  wedding. 

You  ask  me,  Eugene,  if  I  still  pursue  my  botanical  researches.  Some- 
times I  do :  but  the  flower  now  has  no  fragrance,  and  the  herb  no  secret, 
that  I  care  for ;  and  astronomy,  which  you  had  just  begun  to  teach  me, 
pleases  me  more.  The  flowers  charm  me  when  you  are  present,  but  the 
stars  speak  to  me  of  you  in  absence.  Perhaps  it  would  not  be  so  had  I 
loved  a  being  less  exalted  than  you.  Every  one,  even  my  father,  even 
Ellinor,  smile  when  they  observe  how  incessantly  I  think  of  you,  —  how 
utterly  you  have  become  all  in  all  to  me.  I  could  not  tell  this  to  you, 
though  1  write  It :  is  it  not  strange  that  letters  should  be  more  faithful 
than  the  tongue  ?  And  even  your  letter,  mournful  as  it  is,  seems  to  me 
kinder  and  dearer  and  more  full  of  yourself  than,  with  all  the  magic  of 
your  language  and  the  silver  sweetness  of  your  voice,  your  spoken  words 
are.  I  walked  by  your  house  yesterday.  The  windows  were  closed  ; 
there  was  a  strange  air  of  lifelessness  and  dejection  about  it.  Do  you 
remember  the  evening  in  which  I  first  entered  that  house?  Do  you  — 
or  rather  is  there  one  hour  in  which  it  is  not  present  to  you?  For  me,  I 
live  in  the  past ;  it  is  the  present  (which  is  without  you)  in  which  I  have 
no  life.  I  passed  into  the  little  garden,  that  with  your  own  hands  you 
have  planted  for  me,  and  filled  with  flowers.  Ellinor  was  with  me,  and 
she  saw  my  lips  move.  She  asked  me  what  I  was  saying  to  myself.  I 
would  not  tell  her.  I  was  praying  for  you,  ray  kind,  my  beloved  Eu- 
gene ;  I  was  praying  for  the  happiness  of  your  future  years,  —  praying 
that  I  might  requite  your  love.  Whenever  I  feel  the  most,  I  am  the 
most  inclined  to  prayer.  Sorrow,  joy,  tenderness,  all  emotion,  lift  up 
my  heart  to  God.  And  what  a  delicious  overflow  of  the  heart  is  prayer  ! 
When  I  am  with  you,  and  I  feel  that  you  love  me,  my  happiness  would 
be  painful  if  there  were  no  God  whom  I  might  bless  for  its  e.xcess.  Do 
those  who  believe  not,  love?  Have  they  deep  emotions  ?  Can  they  feel 
truly,  devotedly  ?  Why,  when  I  talk  thus  to  you,  do  you  always  answer 
me  with  that  chilling  and  mournful  smile?  You  would  rest  religion 
only  on  reason,  —  as  well  limit  love  to  the  reason  also  1  What  were 
either  without  the  feelings  ? 


EUGENE  ARAM.  269 

When,  when,  when  will  you  return?  I  think  I  love  you  now  more 
than  ever.  I  think  I  have  more  courage  to  tell  you  so.  So  many 
things  I  have  to  say,  so  many  events  to  relate.  For  what  is  not  an 
event  to  us  ?  The  least  incident  that  has  happened  to  either,  —  the 
very  fading  of  a  flower,  if  you  have  worn  it,  —  is  a  whole  history 
to  me. 

Adieu !  God  bless  you,  God  reward  you,  God  keep  your  heart  with 
him,  dearest,  dearest  Eugene  !  And  may  you  every  day  know  better 
and  better  how  utterly  you  are  loved  b}'  your 

Madeline. 

The  epistle  to  which  Lester  referred,  as  received  from 
Walter,  was  one  written  on  the  day  of  his  escape  from  Mr. 
Pertinax  Fillgrave,  a  short  note  rather  than  letter,  which  ran 
as  follows :  — 

My  dear  Uxcle,  —  I  have  met  with  an  accident  which  confined  me 
to  my  bed,  —  a  rencontre,  indeed,  with  the  knights  of  the  road;  nothing 
serious  (so  do  not  be  alarmed)  though  the  doctor  would  fain  have  made 
it  so.  I  am  just  about  to  recommence  my  journey,  but  not  towards 
London  ;  on  the  contrary,  northward. 

I  have,  partly  through  the  information  of  your  old  friend  IVTr.  Court- 
land,  partly  by  accident,  found  what  I  hope  may  prove  a  clew  to  the 
fate  of  my  father  I  am  now  depnrting  to  put  this  hope  to  the  issue. 
More  I  would  fain  say ;  but  lest  the  expectation  should  prove  fallacious, 
I  will  not  dwell  on  circumstances  which  would,  in  that  case,  only  create 
in  you  a  disappointment  similar  to  my  own.  (Inly  this  take  with  you, 
that  my  father's  proverbial  good  luck  seems  to  have  visited  him  since 
your  latest  news  of  his  fate,  —  a  legacy,  though  not  a  large  one,  awaited 
his  return  to  England  from  India.  But  see  if  I  am  not  growing  prolix 
already  !  I  must  break  off,  in  order  to  reserve  you  the  pleasure  (may 
it  be  so  !)  of  a  full  surprise. 

God  bless  you,  my  dear  uncle !  I  write  in  spirits  and  hope.  Kindest 
love  to  all  at  home. 

Walter  Lester. 

P.  S.  —  Tell  Ellinor  that  my  bitterest  misfortune  in  the  adventure  I 
have  referred  to  was  to  be  robbed  of  her  purse.  Will  she  knit  me 
another?  By  the  way,  I  encountered  Sir  Peter  Hales:  such  an  open- 
hearted,  generous  fellow  as  you  said  !  "  Thereby  hangs  a  tale." 

This  letter,  which  provoked  all  the  curiosity  of  our  little 
circle,  made  them  anxiously  look  forward  to  every  post  for 


270  EUGENE   ARAM. 

additional  explanation,  but  that  explanation  came  not  ;  and 
they  were  forced  to  console  themselves  with  the  evident  exhil- 
aration under  which  Walter  wrote,  and  the  probable  supposi- 
tion that  he  delayed  further  information  until  it  could  be 
ample  and  satisfactory.  "  Knights  of  the  road,"  quoth  Lester, 
one  day :  "  I  wonder  if  they  were  any  of  the  gang  that  have 
just  visited  us  ?  Well,  but,  poor  boy,  he  does  not  say  whether 
he  has  any  money  left;  yet  if  he  were  short  of  the  gold,  he 
would  be  very  unlike  his  father  (or  his  uncle,  for  that  matter) 
had  he  forgotten  to  enlarge  on  that  subject,  however  brief 
upon  others." 

"Probably,"  said  Ellinor,  "the  corporal  carried  the  main 
sum  about  him  in  those  well-stuffed  saddle-bags,  and  it  was 
only  the  purse  that  Walter  had  about  his  person  that  was 
stolen;  and  it  is  clear  that  the  corporal  escaped,  as  he  men- 
tions nothing  about  that  excellent  personage." 

"  A  shrewd  guess,  Nell ;  but  pray  why  shoidd  Walter  carry 
the  purse  about  him  so  carefully  ?  Ah!  you  blush:  well,  will 
3'ou  knit  him  another  ?  " 

"Pshaw,  papa!  Good-by;  I  am  going  to  gather  you  a 
nosegay." 

But  Ellinor  was  seized  with  a  sudden  fit  of  industry, 
and,  somehow  or  other,  she  grew  fonder  of  knitting  than 
ever. 

The  neighborhood  was  now  tranquil  and  at  peace;  the 
nightly  depredators  that  had  infested  the  green  valleys  of 
Grassdale  were  heard  of  no  more ;  it  seemed  a  sudden  incur- 
sion of  fraud  and  crime,  which  was  too  unnatural  to  the  char- 
acter of  the  spot  invaded  to  do  more  than  to  terrify  and  to 
disappear.  The  truditur  dies  die,  the  serene  steps  of  one  calm 
day  chasing  another,  returned,  and  the  past  alarm  was  only 
remembered  as  a  tempting  subject  of  gossip  to  the  villagers, 
and  at  the  Hall  a  theme  of  eulogium  on  the  courage  of  Eugene 
Aram. 

"  It  is  a  lovely  day,"  said  Lester  to  his  daughters  as  they  sat 
at  the  window;  "come,  girls,  get  your  bonnets,  and  let  us  take 
a  walk  into  the  village." 

"And  meet  the  postman,"  said  Ellinor,  archly. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  271 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Madeline,  in  the  same  vein,  but  in  a  whis- 
per that  Lester  might  not  hear;  "for  who  knows  but  that  we 
may  have  a  letter  from  Walter  ?  " 

How  prettily  sounds  such  raillery  on  virgin  lips!  ISTo,  no; 
nothing  on  earth  is  so  lovely  as  the  confidence  between  two 
happy  sisters  who  have  no  secrets  but  those  of  a  guileless  love 
to  reveal! 

As  they  strolled  into  the  village  they  were  met  by  Peter 
Dealtry,  who  was  slowly  riding  home  on  a  large  ass,  which 
carried  himself  and  his  panniers  to  the  neighboring  market  in 
a  more  quiet  and  luxurious  indolence  of  action  than  would  the 
harsher  motions  of  the  equine  species. 

"  A  fine  day,  Peter ;  and  what  news  at  market  ? "  said 
Lester. 

"Corn  high,  hay  dear,  your  honor,"  replied  the  clerk. 

"Ah,  I  suppose  so, —  a  good  time  to  sell  ours,  Peter;  we 
must  see  about  it  on  Saturday.  But,  pray,  have  you  heard 
anything  from  the  corporal  since  his  departure  ? " 

"  Not  I,  your  honor,  not  I ;  though  I  think  as  he  might  have 
given  us  a  line,  if  it  was  only  to  thank  me  for  my  care  of  his 
cat;  but  — 

" '  Them  as  comes  to  go  to  roam, 

Thinks  slight  of  they  as  stays  at  home.' " 

"A  notable  distich,  Peter;  your  own  composition,  I  war- 
rant." 

"  Mine !  Lord  love  your  honor,  I  has  no  genus,  but  I  has 
memory;  and  when  them  'ere  beautiful  lines  of  poetry  like 
comes  into  my  head,  they  stays  there,  and  stays  till  they  pops 
out  at  my  tongue,  like  a  bottle  of  ginger-beer.  I  do  loves 
poetry,  sir,  'specially  the  sacred." 

"We  know  it,  we  know  it." 

"For  there  be  summut  in  it,"  continued  the  clerk,  "which 
smooths  a  man's  heart  like  a  clothes-brush,  wipes  away  the 
dust  and  dirt,  and  sets  all  the  nap  right;  and  I  thinks  as 
how  'tis  what  a  clerk  of  the  parish  ought  to  study,  your 
honor." 

"Nothing  better;  you  speak  like  an  oracle." 


272  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"Now,  sir,  there  be  the  corporal,  honest  man,  what  thinks 
himself  mighty  clever;  but  he  has  no  soul  for  varse.  Lord 
love  ye,  to  see  the  faces  he  makes  when  I  tells  him  a  hymn  or 
so, —  'tis  quite  wicked,  your  honor-  for  that's  what  the  hea- 
then did   as  you  well  know,  sir. 

"'And  when  I  does  discourse  of  things 
Most  holy  to  their  tribe, 
What  does  they  do  f     They  mocks  at  me, 
And  makes  my  heart  a  gibe.' 

'T  is  not  what  J  calls  pretty.  Miss  Ellinor." 

"Certainly  not,  Peter;  I  wonder,  with  your  talents  for 
verse,  you  never  indulge  in  a  little  satire  against  such  per- 
verse taste." 

"Satire!  What's  that  ?  Oh,  I  knows, —  what  they  writes 
in  elections.  Why,  miss,  mayhap  —  "  here  Peter  paused,  and 
winked  significantly.  "But  the  corporal 's  a  passionate  man, 
you  knows;  but  I  could  so  sting  him.  Aha!  we  '11  see,  we  '11 
see.  Do  you  know,  your  honor," — here  Peter  altered  his  air 
to  one  of  serious  importance,  as  if  about  to  impart  a  most  saga- 
cious conjecture, —  "I  thinks  there  be  one  reason  why  the  cor- 
poral has  not  written  to  me." 

"And  what 's  that,  Peter  ?  " 

"'Cause,  your  honor,  he  's  ashamed  of  his  writing;  I  fancy 
as  how  his  spelling  is  no  better  than  it  should  be.  But  mum  's 
the  word.  You  sees,  your  honor,  the  corporal 's  got  a  tarn  for 
conversation-like;  he  be  a  mighty  fine  talker,  sure///,  but  he 
be  shy  o'  the  pen.  'T  is  not  every  man  what  talks  biggest 
what 's  the  best  scholard  at  bottom.  Why,  there  's  the  news- 
paper I  saw  in  the  market  (for  I  always  sees  the  newspaper 
once  a  week)  says  as  how  some  of  them  great  speakers  in  the 
parliament  house  are  no  better  than  ninnies  when  they  gets 
upon  paper;  and  that's  the  corporal's  case,  I  sispect.  I  sup- 
pose as  how  they  can't  spell  all  them  'ere  long  words  they 
make  use  on.  For  my  part,  I  thinks  there  be  mortal  desate 
[deceit]  like  in  that  'ere  public  speaking,  for  I  knows  how  far 
a  loud  voice  and  a  bold  face  goes,  even  in  buying  a  cow,  your 
honor,  and  I  'm  afraid  the  country  's  greatly  bubbled  in  tha.t 


EUGENE   ARAM.  273 

'ere  partiklar;  for  if  a  man  can't  write  down  clearly  what  he 
means  for  to  say,  I  does  not  thinks  as  how  he  knows  what  he 
means  when  he  goes  for  to  speak!  " 

This  speech  —  quite  a  moral  exposition  for  Peter,  and  doubt- 
less inspired  by  his  visit  to  market;  for  what  wisdom  cannot 
come  from  intercourse?  —  our  good  publican  delivered  with 
especial  solemnity,  giving  a  huge  thump  on  the  sides  of  his 
ass  as  he  concluded. 

"Upon  my  word,  Peter,"  said  Lester,  laughing,  "you  have 
grown  quite  a  Solomon,  and  instead  of  a  clerk,  you  ought  to 
be  a  justice  of  the  peace  at  the  least;  and,  indeed,  I  must  say 
that  I  think  you  shine  more  in  the  capacity  of  a  lecturer  than 
in  that  of  a  soldier." 

"  'T  is  not  for  a  clerk  of  the  parish  to  have  too  great  a  knack 
at  the  weapons  of  the  flesh,"  said  Peter,  sanctimoniously,  and 
turning  aside  to  conceal  a  slight  confusion  at  the  unlucky 
reminiscence  of  his  warlike  exploits;  "but  lauk,  sir,  even  aa 
to  that,  why  we  has  frightened  all  the  robbers  away.  What 
would  you  have  us  do  more  ?  " 

"Upon  my  word,  Peter,  you  say  right;  and  now,  good  day. 
Your  Avife  's  well,  I  hope  ?  And  Jacobina  (is  not  that  the 
cat's  name  ?)  in  high  health  and  favor  ?  " 

"  Hem,  hem !  why,  to^  be  sure,  the  cat 's  a  good  cat ;  but  she 
steals  Goody  Truman's  cream  as  Goody  sets  for  butter  reg'- 
larly  every  night." 

"Oh!  you  must  cure  her  of  that,"  said  Lester,  smiling.  "I 
hope  that 's  the  worst  fault." 

"Why,  your  gardener  do  say,"  replied  Peter,  reluctantly, 
"as  how  she  goes  arter  the  pheasants  in  Copse-hole." 

"The  deuce!"  cried  the  squire;  "that  will  never  do.  She 
must  be  shot,  Peter,  she  must  be  shot.  ATij  pheasants,  mj 
best  preserves,  and  poor  Goody  Truman's  cream,  too,  —  a 
perfect  devil!  Look  to  it,  Peter;  if  I  hear  any  complaints 
again,  Jacobina  is  done  for.  What  are  you  laughing  at, 
Nell  ?  " 

"  Well,  go  thy  ways  for  a  shrewd  man  and  a  clever  man  ,•  it 
is  not  every  one  who  could  so  suddenly  have  elicited  my 
father's  compassion  for  Goody  Truman's  cream." 

18 


274  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"Pooh!"  said  tlie  squire,  '"'a  pheasant's  a  serioiis  thing, 
child;  but  you  Avomen  don't  understand  matters." 

They  had  now  crossed  through  the  village  into  the  fields, 
and  were  slowly  sauntering  by 

"  Hedge-row  elms  on  hillocks  green," 

when,  seated  under  a  stunted  pollard,  they  came  suddenly  on 
the  ill-favored  person  of  Dame  Darkmans.  She  sat  bent  (with 
her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  her  hands  supporting  her  chin), 
looking  up  to  the  clear  autumnal  sky ;  and  as  they  approached, 
she  did  not  stir,  or  testify  by  sign  or  glance  that  she  even 
perceived  them. 

There  is  a  certain  kind-hearted  sociability  of  temper  that 
you  see  sometimes  among  country  gentlemen,  especially  not 
of  the  highest  rank,  who  knowing,  and  looked  up  to  by,  every 
one  immediately  around  them,  acquire  the  habit  of  accosting 
all  they  meet, —  a  habit  as  painful  for  them  to  break  as  it  was 
painful  for  poor  Rousseau  to  be  asked  "how  he  did"  by  an 
apple-woman.  And  the  kind  old  squire  could  not  pass  even 
Goody  Darkmans  (coming  thus  abruptly  upon  her)  without  a 
salutation. 

"  All  alone,  dame,  enjoying  the  fine  weather  ?  That 's  right. 
And  how  fares  it  with  you  ?  " 

The  old  woman  turned  round  her  dark  and  bleared  eyes, 
but  without  moving  limb  or  posture. 

"  'T  is  wellnigh  winter  now;  'tis  not  easy  for  poor  folks  to 
fare  well  at  this  time  o'  year.  Where  be  we  to  get  the  fire- 
wood and  the  clothing  and  the  dry  bread  —  carse  it!  — and  the 
drop  o'  stuff  that's  to  keep  out  the  cold  ?  Ah!  it 's  fine  for 
you  to  ask  how  we  does,  and  the  days  shortening  and  the  air 
sharpening." 

"  Well,  dame,   shall  I  send  to for  a  warm   cloak   for 

you  ?  "  said  Madeline. 

"  Ho !  thank  ye,  young  lady,  thank  ye  kindly,  and  I  '11  wear 
it  at  your  widding;  for  they  says  you  be  going  to  git  married 
to  the  larned  man  yander.  Wish  ye  well,  ma'am;  wish  ye 
well." 

The  old  hag  grinned  as  she  uttered  this  benediction,  that 


EUGENE   AKAM.  275 

sounded  on  her  lips  like  the  Lord's  Prayer  on  a  witch's, — 
which  converts  the  devotion  to  a  crime,  and  the  prayer  to  a 
curse. 

"Ye 're  very  winsome,  young  lady,"  she  continued,  eying 
Madeline's  tall  and  rounded  figure  from  head  to  foot,  "yes, 
very;  but  I  was  bonny  as  you  once,  and  if  you  lives, —  mind 
that, —  fair  and  happy  as  you  stand  now,  you'll  be  as  with- 
ered and  foul-faced  and  wretched  as  me.  Ha!  ha!  I  loves 
to  look  on  young  folk,  and  think  o'  that.  But  mayhap  ye 
won't  live  to  be  old, —  more  's  the  pity!  For  ye  might  be  a 
widow,  and  childless,  and  a  lone  'oman,  as  I  be,  if  you  were 
to  see  sixty.  An'  wouldn't  that  be  nice?  ha!  ha!  Much 
pleasure  ye  '11  have  in  the  fine  weather  then,  and  in  people's 
fine  speeches,  eh  ?  " 

"Come,  dame,"  said  Lester,  with  a  cloud  on  his  benign 
brow,  "this  talk  is  ungrateful  to  me  and  disrespectful  to  Miss 
Lester ;  it  is  not  the  way  to  —  " 

"Hout!  "  interrupted  the  old  woman,  "I  begs  pardon,  sir,  if 
I  offended, —  I  begs  pardon,  young  lady;  'tis  my  way,  poor 
old  soul  that  I  be.  And  you  meant  me  kindly,  and  I  would 
not  be  uncivil  now  you  are  a  going  to  give  me  a  bonny  cloak. 
And  what  color  shall  it  be  ?  " 

"Why,  what  color  would  you  like  best,  dame, — red  ?  " 

"Red,  no, —  like  a  gypsy-quean,  indeed!  Besides,  they  all 
has  red  cloaks  in  the  village  yonder.  No ;  a  handsome  dark 
gray,  or  a  gay,  cheersome  black,  an'  then  I  '11  dance  in  mourn- 
ing at  your  wedding,  young  lady, —  and  that 's  what  ye  '11  like. 
But  what  ha'  ye  done  with  the  merry  bridegroom,  ma'am  ? 
Gone  away,  I  hear.  Ah,  ye  '11  have  a  happy  life  on  it,  with 
a  gentleman  like  him;  I  never  seed  him  laugh  once.  Why 
does  not  he  hire  me  as  your  sarvant:  would  not  I  be  a  favor- 
ite thin  ?  I  'd  stand  on  the  thrishold  and  give  ye  good  morrow 
every  day.  Oh!  it  does  me  a  deal  of  good  to  say  a  blessing 
to  them  as  be  younger  and  gayer  than  me.  Madge  Darkmans' 
blessing !     Och !  what  a  thing  to  wish  for !  " 

"Well,  good  day,  mother,"  said  Lester,  moving  on. 

■'Stay  a  bit,  stay  a  bit,  sir:  has  ye  any  commands,  miss, 
yonder,    at   Master  Aram's  ?     His  old  'oman  's  a  gossip  of 


276  EUGENE   ARAM. 

mine,  we  were  young  togitlier,  and  the  lads  did  not  know 
which  to  like  the  best.  So  we  often  meets  and  talks  of  tlie 
old  times.  I  be  going  up  there  now.  Och  !  I  hope  I  shall 
be  asked  to  the  widding.  And  what  a  nice  month  to  wid  in ! 
Novimber,  Novimber,  that's  the  merry  month  for  me!  But 
'tis  cold,  bitter  cold  too.  Well,  good  day,  good  day.  Ay," 
continued  the  hag,  as  Lester  and  the  sisters  moved  on,  "  ye  all 
goes,  and  throws  niver  a  look  behind.  Ye  despises  the  poor 
in  your  hearts.  But  the  poor  will  have  their  day.  Och!  an' 
I  wish  ye  were  dead,  dead,  dead,  an'  I  dancing  in  my  bonny 
black  cloak  about  your  graves ;  for  a'n't  all  mine  dead,  cold, 
cold,  rotting  ?  —  and  one  kind  and  rich  man  might  ha'  saved 
them  all !  " 

Thus  mumbling,  the  wretched  creature  looked  after  the 
father  and  his  daughters  as  they  wound  onward,  till  her  dim 
eyes  caught  them  no  longer ;  and  then,  drawing  her  rags  round 
her,  she  rose,  and  struck  into  the  opposite  path  that  led  to 
Aram's  house. 

"  I  hope  that  hag  will  be  no  constant  visitor  at  your  future 
residence,  Madeline,"  said  the  younger  sister;  "it  would  be 
like  a  blight  on  the  air." 

"And  if  we  could  remove  her  from  the  parish,"  said  Les- 
ter, "  it  would  be  a  happy  day  for  the  village.  Yet,  strange 
as  it  may  seem,  so  great  is  her  power  over  them  all  that  there 
is  never  a  marriage  nor  a  christening  in  the  village  from 
which  she  is  absent;  they  dread  her  spite  and  foul  tongue 
enough  to  make  them  even  ask  humbly  for  her  presence." 

"And  the  hag  seems  to  know  that  her  bad  qualities  are  a 
good  policy,  and  obtain  more  respect  than  amiability  would 
do,"  said  Ellinor.  "I  think  there  is  some  design  in  all  she 
utters." 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  the  words  and  sight  of  that 
woman  have  struck  a  damp  into  my  heart,"  said  Madeline, 
musingly. 

"It  would  be  wonderful  if  they  had  not,  child,"  said  Lester, 
soothingly;  and  he  changed  the  conversation  to  other  topics. 

As,  concluding  their  walk,  they  re-entered  the  village,  they 
encountered  that  most  welcome  of  all  visitants  to  a  country 


EUGENE  ARAM.  277 

village, —  the  postman;  a  tall,  thin  pedestrian,  famous  for 
swiftness  of  foot,  with  a  cheerful  face,  a  swinging  gait,  and 
Lester's  bag  slung  over  his  shoulder.  Our  little  party  quick- 
ened their  pace:  one  letter, —  for  Madeline, —  Aram's  hand- 
writing. Happy  blush,  bright  smile !  Ah !  no  meeting  ever 
gives  the  delight  that  a  letter  can  inspire  in  the  short  absences 
of  a  first  love, 

"  And  none  for  me !  "  said  Lester,  in  a  disappointed  tone, 
and  Ellinor's  hand  hung  more  heavily  on  his  arm,  and  her 
step  moved  slower.  "It  is  very  strange  in  Walter;  but  I  am 
really  more  angry  than  alarmed." 

"Be  sure,"  said  Ellinor,  after  a  pause,  "that  it  is  not  his 
fault.  Something  may  have  happened  to  him.  Good  heavens ! 
if  he  has  been  attacked  again, —  those  fearful  highwaymen!  " 

"Nay,"  said  Lester,  "the  most  probable  supposition,  after 
all,  is  that  he  will  not  write  until  his  expectations  are  realized 
or  destroyed.  Natural  enough,  too;  it  is  what  I  should  have 
done  if  I  had  been  in  his  place." 

"  Natural ! "  said  Ellinor,  who  now  attacked  where  she  be- 
fore defended, —  "natural  not  to  give  us  one  line,  to  say  he  is 
well  and  safe !     Natural !  /  could  not  have  been  so  remiss !  " 

"Ay,  child,  you  women  are  so  fond  of  writing.  'Tis  not 
so  with  us,  especially  when  we  are  moving  about;  it  is  always, 
'  Well,  I  must  write  to-morrow ;  well,  I  must  write  when 
this  is  settled;  well,  I  must  write  when  I  arrive  at  such  a 
place;'  and,  meanwhile,  time  slips  on,  till  perhaps  we  get 
ashamed  of  writing  at  all.  I  heard  a  great  man  say  once  that 
'Men  must  have  something  effeminate  about  them  to  be  good 
correspondents; '  and  'faith!  I  think  it's  true  enough  on  the 
whole." 

"  I  wonder  if  Madeline  thinks  so  ?  "  said  Ellinor,  enviously 
glancing  at  her  sister's  absorption,  as,  lingering  a  little  be- 
hind, she  devoured  the  contents  of  her  letter. 

"He  is  coming  home  immediately,  dear  father, —  perhaps 
he  may  be  here  to-morrow, "  cried  Madeline,  abruptly.  "  Think 
of  that,  Ellinor!  Ah!  and  he  writes  in  spirits!  "  and  the  poor 
girl  clapped  her  hands  delightedly,  as  the  color  danced  joy- 
ously over  her  cheek  and  neck. 


278  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  quoth  Lester;  "we  shall  have  him 
at  last  beat  even  Ellinor  in  gayety !  " 

"That  may  easily  be,"  sighed  Ellinor  to  herself  as  she  glided 
past  them  into  the  house  and  sought  her  own  chamber. 


CHAPTER   V. 

A   REFLECTION"  NEW  AND    STRANGE. THE    STREETS   OF   LONDON. 

A      GREAT    man's    LIBRARY. A    CONVERSATION     BETWEEN 

THE   STUDENT    AND    AN    ACQUAINTANCE     OF     THE    READER. 

ITS    RESULTS. 

Here  's  a  statesman ! 

Rolla.     Ask  for  thyself. 

Lat.       What  more  can  concern  me  than  this  ? 

The  Tragedy  of  Rolla. 

It  was  an  evening  in  the  declining  autumn  of  1758;  some 
public  ceremony  had  occurred  during  the  day,  and  the  crowd 
which  had  assembled  was  only  now  gradually  lessening  as  the 
shadows  darkened  along  the  streets.  Through  this  crowd, 
self-absorbed  as  usual,  —  with  them,  not  one  of  them, — Eu- 
gene Aram  slowly  wound  his  uncompanioned  way.  What  an 
incalculable  field  of  dread  and  sombre  contemplation  is  opened 
to  every  man  who,  with  his  heart  disengaged  from  himself, 
and  his  eyes  accustomed  to  the  sharp  observance  of  his  tribe, 
walks  through  the  streets  of  a  great  city !  What  a  world  of 
dark  and  troubled  secrets  in  the  breast  of  every  one  who  hurries 
by  you !  Goethe  has  said  somewhere  that  each  of  us,  the  best 
as  the  worst,  hides  within  him  something  —  some  feeling, 
some  remembrance  —  that,  if  known,  would  make  you  hate 
him.  No  doubt  the  saying  is  exaggerated :  but  still,  what  a 
gloomy  and  profound  sublimity  in  the  idea;  what  a  new  in- 
sight it  gives  into  the  hearts  of  the  common  herd;  with  what 
a  strange    interest   it  may  inspire   us  for  the   humblest,  the 


EUGENE   ARAM.  279 

tritest  passenger  that  shoulders  us  in  the  great  thoroughfare 
of  life !  One  of  the  greatest  pleasures  in  the  world  is  to  walk 
alone  and  at  night,  while  they  are  yet  crowded,  through  the 
long  lamp-lit  streets  of  this  huge  metropolis.  There,  even 
more  than  in  the  silence  of  woods  and  fields,  seems  to  me  the 
source  of  endless,  various  meditation. 

"Crescit  enim  cum  amplitudine  rerum  vis  ingenii."! 

There  was  that  in  Aram's  person  which  irresistibly  com- 
manded attention.  The  earnest  composure  of  his  countenance, 
its  thoughtful  paleness,  the  long  hair  falling  back,  the  pecu- 
liar and  estranged  air  of  his  whole  figure,  accompanied  as  it 
was  by  a  mildness  of  expression  and  that  lofty  abstraction 
which  characterizes  one  who  is  a  brooder  over  his  own  heart, 
a  soothsayer  to  his  own  dreams, —  all  these  arrested  from  time 
to  time  the  second  gaze  of  the  passenger,  and  forced  on  him 
the  impression,  simple  as  was  the  dress,  and  unpretending  as 
was  the  gait  of  the  stranger,  that  in  indulging  that  second 
gaze  he  was  in  all  probability  satisfying  the  curiosity  which 
makes  us  love  to  fix  our  regard  upon  any  remarkable  man. 

At  length  Aram  turned  from  the  more  crowded  streets,  and 
in  a  short  time  paused  before  one  of  the  most  princely  houses 
in  London.  It  was  surrounded  by  a  spacious  court-yard,  and 
over  the  porch  the  arms  of  the  owner,  with  the  coronet  and 
supporters,  were  raised  in  stone. 

"  Is  Lord within  ?  "  asked  Aram,  of  the  bluff   porter 

who  appeared  at  the  gate. 

"My  lord  is  at  dinner,"  replied  the  porter,  thinking  the 
answer  quite  sufficient,  and  about  to  reclose  the  gate  upon  the 
unseasonable  visitor. 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  he  is  at  home, "  rejoined  Aram,  gliding 
past  the  servant  with  an  air  of  quiet  and  unconscious  com- 
mand, and  passing  the  court -yard  to  the  main  building. 

At  the  door  of  the  house,  to  which  you  ascended  by  a  flight 
of  stone  steps,  the  valet  of  the  nobleman  —  the  only  nobleman 
introduced  in  our  tale,  and  consequently  the  same  whom  we 

*  "  For  the  power  of  the  intellect  is  increased  by  the  amplitude  of  the  things 
that  feed  it." 


280  EUGENE  ARAM. 

have  presented  to  our  reader  in  the  earlier  part  of  this  work.  — • 
happened  to  be  lounging  and  enjoying  the  smoke  of  the  evening 

air.     High-bred,  prudent,  and  sagacious.  Lord knew  well 

how  often  great  men,  especially  in  public  life,  obtain  odium  for 
the  rudeness  of  their  domestics ;  and  all  those,  especially  about 
himself,  had  been  consequently  tutored  into  the  habits  of  uni- 
versal courtesy  and  deference,  to  the  lowest  stranger  as  well 
as  to  the  highest  guest.  And  trifling  as  tins  may  seem,  it  was 
an  act  of  morality  as  well  as  of  prudence.  Few  can  guess 
what  pain  may  be  saved  to  poor  and  proud  men  of  merit  by  a 
similar  precaution.  The  valet  therefore  replied  to  the  visi- 
tor's inquiry  with  great  politeness, —  he  recollected  Aram's 
name  and  repute ;  and  as  the  earl,  taking  delight  in  the  com- 
pany of  men  of  letters,  was  generally  easy  of  access  to  all 
such,  the  great  man's  great  man  instantly  conducted  the  stu- 
dent to  the  earl's  library,  and  informing  him  that  his  lordship 
had  not  yet  left  the  dining-room,  where  he  was  entertaining 
a  large  party,  assured  him  that  he  should  be  apprised  of 
Aram's  visit  the  moment  he  did  so. 

Lord was  still  in  office.     Sundry  boxes  were  scattered 

on  the  floor,  papers,  that  seemed  countless,  lay  strewed  over 
the  immense  library  table ;  but  here  and  there  were  books  of 
a  more  seductive  character  than  those  of  business,  in  which 
the  mark  lately  set,  and  the  pencilled  note  still  fresh,  showed 
the  fondness  with  which  men  of  cultivated  minds,  though  en- 
gaged in  official  pursuits,  will  turn,  in  the  momentary  inter- 
vals of  more  arid  and  toilsome  life,  to  those  lighter  studies 
which  perhaps  they  in  reality  the  most  enjoy. 

One  of  these  books,  a  volume  of  Shaftesbury,  Aram  care- 
fully took  up;  it  opened  of  its  own  accord  at  that  most  beau- 
tiful and  x>rofound  passage,  which  contains  perhaps  the  just- 
est  sarcasm  to  which  that  ingenious  and  graceful  reasoner 
has  given  vent:  — 

"  The  very  spirit  of  Faction,  for  the  greatest  part,  seems  to  be  no 
other  than  the  abuse  or  irreguhiritj-  of  tliat  social  love  and  common 
affection  which  is  natural  to  mankind,  for  the  opposite  of  social)lones3 
is  selfishness  ;  and  of  all  characters,  the  thorough  selfish  one  is  the  least 
forward  in  taking  party.     The  men  of  this  sort  are,  in  this  respect,  true 


EUGENE   ARAM.  281 

men  of  moderation.  They  are  secure  of  their  temper,  and  possess  them- 
selves too  well  to  be  in  dann;er  of  entering  warmly  into  any  cause,  or 
engaging  deeply  with  any  side  or  faction." 

On  the  margin  of  the  page  was  the  following  note,  in  the 
handwriting  of  Lord :  — 

"  Generosity  hurries  a  man  into  party,  —  philosophy  keeps  him  aloof 
from  it ;  the  Emperor  Julian  says,  in  his  epistle  to  'J'heniistius,  '  If  you 
should  form  only  three  or  four  philosophers,  you  would  contribute  more 
essentially  to  the  happiness  of  mankind  than  many  kinijjs  united.'  Yet 
if  all  men  were  philosophers,  I  doubt  whether,  though  more  men  would 
be  virtuous,  there  would  be  so  many  instances  of  an  extraordinary  vir- 
tue.    The  violent  passions  produce  dazzling  irregularities." 

The  student  was  still  engaged  with  this  note  when  the  earl 
entered  the  room.  As  the  door  through  which  he  passed  was 
behind  Aram,  and  he  trod  with  a  soft  step,  he  was  not  per- 
ceived by  the  scholar  till  he  had  reached  him;  and,  looking 
over  Aram's  shoulder,  the  earl  said:  "You  will  dispute  the 
truth  of  my  remark,  will  you  not  ?  Profound  calm  is  the 
element  in  which  you  would  place  all  the  virtues." 

"Not  all,  my  lord,"  answered  Aram,  rising,  as  the  earl  now 
shook  him  by  the  hand  and  expressed  his  delight  at  seeing  the 
student  again.  Though  the  sagacious  nobleman  had  no  sooner 
heard  the  student's  name  than,  in  his  own  heart,  he  was  con- 
vinced that  Aram  had  sought  him  for  the  purpose  of  soliciting 
a  renewal  of  the  offers  he  had  formerly  refused,  he  resolved 
to  leave  his  visitor  to  open  the  subject  himself,  and  appeared 
courteously  to  consider  the  visit  as  a  matter  of  course,  made 
without  any  other  object  than  the  renewal  of  the  mutual 
pleasure  of  intercourse. 

"I  am  afraid,  my  lord,"  said  Aram,  "that  you  are  engaged. 
My  visit  can  be  paid  to-morrow  if  —  " 

"Indeed,"  said  the  earl,  interrupting  him,  and  drawing  a 
chair  to  the  table,  "  I  have  no  engagements  which  should  de- 
prive me  of  the  pleasure  of  your  company.  A  few  friends 
have  indeed  dined  with  me,  but  as  they  are  now  with  Lady 

,  I  do  not  think  they  will  greatly  miss  me.     Besides,  an 

occasional   absence  is  readily  forgiven  in  us   happy  men  of 


282  EUGENE  ARAM. 

office, — we,  who  have  the  honor  of  exciting  the  envy  of  all 
England  for  being  made  magnificently  wretched." 

"I  am  glad  you  allow  so  much,  my  lord,"  said  Aram,  smil- 
ing; "/could  not  have  said  more.  Ambition  only  makes  a 
favorite  to  make  an  ingrate ;  she  has  lavished  her  honors  on 
Lord ,  and  hear  how  he  speaks  of  her  bounty !  " 

"JSTay,"  said  the  earl,  "I  spoke  wantonly,  and  stand  cor- 
rected. I  have  no  reason  to  complain  of  the  course  I  have 
chosen.  Ambition,  like  any  other  passion,  gives  us  unhappy 
moments,  but  it  gives  us  also  an  animated  life.  In  its  pur- 
suit, the  minor  evils  of  the  world  are  not  felt;  little  crosses, 
little  vexations,  do  not  disturb  us.  Like  men  who  walk  in 
sleep,  we  are  absorbed  in  one  powerful  dream,  and  do  not  even 
know  the  obstacles  in  our  way,  or  the  dangers  that  surround 
us, —  in  a  word,  we  have  710  j^rivate  life.  All  that  is  merely 
domestic,  the  anxiety  and  the  loss  which  fret  other  men,  which 
blight  the  happiness  of  other  men,  are  not  felt  by  us, —  we  are 
wholly  public;  so  that  if  we  lose  much  comfort,  we  escape 
much  care." 

The  earl  broke  off  for  a  moment;  and  then,  turning  the 
subject,  inquired  after  tlie  Lesters,  and  making  some  general 
and  vague  observations  about  that  family,  came  purposely  to 
a  pause. 

Aram  broke  it. 

"My  lord,"  said  he,  with  a  slight,  but  not  ungraceful,  em- 
barrassment, "I  fear  that  in  tlie  course  of  your  political  life 
you  must  have  made  one  observation, —  that  he  who  promises 
to-day  will  be  called  upon  to  perform  to-morrow.  No  man 
who  has  anything  to  bestow,  can  ever  promise  witli  impunity. 
Some  time  since,  you  tendered  me  oifers  that  would  have  daz- 
zled more  ardent  natures  than  mine,  and  which  I  might  have 
advanced  some  claim  to  philosophy  in  refusing.  I  do  not  now 
come  to  ask  a  renewal  of  tliose  offers.  Public  life  and  the 
haunts  of  men  are  as  hateful  as  ever  to  my  pursuits;  but  I 
come,  frankly  and  candidly,  to  throw  myself  on  that  generos- 
ity which  proffered  to  me  then  so  large  a  bounty.  Certain 
circumstances  have  taken  from  me  the  small  pittance  which 
supplied  my  wants.     I  require  only  the  power  to  pursue  my 


EUGENE  ARAM.  283 

quiet  and  obscure  career  of  study,  —  your  lordship  can  afford 
me  that  power.  It  is  not  against  custom  for  the  government 
to  grant  some  small  annuity  to  men  of  letters,  —  your  lord- 
ship's interest  could  obtain  me  this  favor.  Let  me  add,  how- 
ever, that  I  can  offer  nothing  in  return.  Party  politics, 
sectarian  interests,  are  forever  dead  to  me-,  even  my  common 
studies  are  of  small  general  utility  to  mankind,  I  am  con- 
scious of  this, —  would  it  were  otherwise!  Once  I  hoped  it 
would  be ;  but  —  "  Aram  here  turned  deadly  pale,  gasped  for 
breath,  mastered  his  emotion,  and  proceeded:  "I  have  no 
great  claim,  then,  to  this  bounty  beyond  that  which  all  poor 
cultivators  of  the  abstruse  sciences  can  advance.  It  is  well 
for  a  country  that  those  sciences  should  be  cultivated;  they 
are  not  of  a  nature  which  is  ever  lucrative  to  the  possessor,  not 
of  a  nature  that  can  often  be  left,  like  lighter  literature,  to  the 
fair  favor  of  the  public.  They  call,  perhaps,  more  than  any 
species  of  intellectual  culture,  for  the  protection  of  a  govern- 
ment ;  and  though  in  me  would  be  a  poor  selection,  the  princi- 
ple would  still  be  served,  and  the  example  furnish  precedent 
for  nobler  instances  hereafter.     I  have  said  all,  my  lord !  " 

Nothing  perhaps  more  affects  a  man  of  some  sympathy  with 
those  who  cultivate  letters  than  the  pecuniary  claims  of  one 
who  can  advance  them  with  justice,  and  who  advances  them 
also  with  dignity.  If  the  meanest,  the  most  pitiable,  the 
most  heart-sickening  object  in  the  world  is  the  man  of  letters 
sunk  into  the  habitual  beggar,  practising  the  tricks,  incurring 
the  rebuke,  glorying  in  the  shame,  of  the  mingled  mendicant 
and  swindler, —  what,  on  the  other  hand,  so  touches,  so  sub- 
dues us  as  the  first,  and  only,  petition  of  one  whose  intellect 
dignifies  our  whole  kind,  and  who  prefers  it  with  a  certain 
haughtiness  in  his  very  modesty,  because,  in  asking  a  favor 
to  himself,  he  may  be  only  asking  the  power  to  enlighten  the 
world  ? 

"Say  no  more,  sir,"  said  the  earl,  affected  deeply,  and  grace- 
fully giving  way  to  the  feeling;  "the  affair  is  settled.  Con- 
sider it  so.    Name  only  the  amount  of  the  annuity  you  desire." 

With  some  hesitation  Aram  named  a  sum  so  moderate,  so 
trivial,  that  the  minister,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  the  claims 


284  EUGENE   ARAM. 

of  younger  sons  and  widowed  dowagers;  accustomed  to  the 
hungry  cravings  of  petitioners  without  merit,  who  considered 
birth  tlie  only  just  title  to  the  right  of  exactions  from  the 
public,  — was  literally  startled  by  the  contrast.  "More  than 
this,"  added  Aram,  "I  do  not  require  and  would  decline  to 
accept.  We  have  some  right  to  claim  existence  from  the  ad- 
ministrators of  the  common  stock, —  none  to  claim  affluence." 

"  Would  to  Heaven,"  said  the  earl,  smiling,  "that  all  claim- 
ants were  like  you!  Pension-lists  would  not  then  call  for  in- 
dignation, and  ministers  would  not  blush  to  support  the  justice 
of  the  favors  they  conferred.  But  are  you  still  firm  in  reject- 
ing a  more  public  career,  with  all  its  deserved  emoluments 
and  just  honors  ?  The  offer  I  made  you  once,  I  renew  with 
increased  avidity  now." 

"'Despiciam  dites,'  "  answered  Aram;  "and,  thanks  to  you, 
I  may  add,  'despiciamque  famem.'  "  ^ 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  THAMES  AT  NIGHT. A  THOUGHT. THE  STUDENT  RESEEKS 

THE   RUFFIAN. —  A    HUMAN     FEELING    EVEN     IN    THE    WORST 
SOIL. 

Clem.     'T  is  our  last  interview ! 

Stat.     Pray  Heaven  it  be !  —  Clemanthes. 

On  leaving  Lord 's,  Aram  proceeded,  with  a  lighter 

and  more  rapid  step,  towards  a  less  courtly  quarter  of  the 
metropolis. 

He  had  found,  on  arriving  in  London,  that  in  order  to  secure 
the  annual  sum  promised  to  Houseman,  it  had  been  necessary 
to  strip  himself  even  of  the  small  stipend  he  had  hoped  to  re- 
tain. And  hence  his  visit,  and  hence  his  petition,  to  Lord 
.     He  now  bent  his  way  to  the  spot  in  which  Houseman 

^  " '  Let  me  despise  wealth  ; '  and,  thanks  to  you,  I  may  add,  '  and  let  me 
look  down  on  famine.' " 


EUGENE  ARAM.  285 

had  appointed  tlieir  meeting.  To  tlie  fastidious  reader  these 
details  of  pecuniary  matters,  so  trivial  in  themselves,  may  be 
a  little  wearisome,  and  may  seem  a  little  undignified ;  but  we 
are  writing  a  romance  of  real  life,  and  the  reader  must  take 
what  is  homely  with  what  may  be  more  epic,  —  the  pettiness 
and  the  wants  of  the  daily  world,  with  its  loftier  sorrows  and 
its  grander  crimes.  Besides,  who  knows  how  darkly  just  may 
be  that  moral  which  shows  us  a  nature  originally  high,  a  soul 
once  all  athirst  for  truth,  bowed  (by  what  events  ?)  to  the 
manoeuvres  and  the  lies  of  the  worldly  hypocrite  ? 

The  night  had  now  closed  in,  and  its  darkness  was  only  re- 
lieved by  the  wan  lamps  that  vistaed  the  streets,  and  a  few 
dim  stars  that  struggled  through  the  reeking  haze  that  cur- 
tained the  great  city.  Aram  had  now  gained  one  of  the 
bridges  "  that  arch  the  royal  Thames ; "  and  at  no  time  dead 
to  scenic  attraction,  he  there  paused  for  a  moment,  and  looked 
along  the  dark  river  that  rushed  below. 

0  God!  how  many  wild  and  stormy  hearts  have  stilled  them- 
selves on  that  spot,  for  one  dread  instant  of  thought,  of  calcu- 
lation, of  resolve, —  one  instant,  the  last  of  life!  Look  at 
night  along  the  course  of  that  stately  river,  how  gloriously  it 
seems  to  mock  the  passions  of  them  that  dwell  beside  it!  Un- 
changed, unchanging,  all  around  it  quick  death  and  troubled 
life;  itself  smiling  up  to  the  gray  stars,  and  singing  from  its 
deep  heart  as  it  bounds  along.  Beside  it  is  the  senate,  proud 
of  its  solemn  triflers ;  and  there  the  cloistered  tomb,  in  which, 
as  the  loftiest  honor,  some  handful  of  the  fiercest  of  the  strag- 
glers may  gain  forgetfulness  and  a  grave.  There  is  no  moral 
to  a  great  city  like  the  river  that  washes  its  walls. 

There  was  something  in  the  view  before  him  that  suggested 
reflections  similar  to  these  to  the  strange  and  mysterious  breast 
of  the  lingering  student.  A  solemn  dejection  crept  over  him, 
a  warning  voice  sounded  on  his  ear,  the  fearful  genius  within 
him  was  aroused;  and  even  in  the  moment  when  his  triumph 
seemed  complete  and  his  safety  secured,  he  felt  it  only  as  — 

"  The  torrent's  smoothness  ere  it  dash  helow." 
The  mist  obscured  and  saddened  the  few  lierhts  scattered  on 


286  EUGENE   ARAM. 

either  side  the  water,  and  a  deep  and  gloomy  quiet  brooded 
round. 

"  The  very  houses  seemed  asleep, 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  was  lying  still." 

Arousing  himself  from  his  short  and  sombre  revery,  Aram 
resumed  his  way;  and  threading  some  of  the  smaller  streets 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  water,  arrived  at  last  in  the  street 
in  which  he  was  to  seek  Houseman. 

It  was  a  narrow  and  dark  lane,  and  seemed  altogether  of  a 
suspicious  and  disreputable  locality.  One  or  two  samples  of 
the  lowest  description  of  alehouses  broke  the  dark  silence  of 
the  spot.  From  them  streamed  the  only  lights  which  assisted 
the  single  lamp  that  burned  at  the  entrance  of  the  alley,  and 
bursts  of  drunken  laughter  and  obscene  merriment  broke  out 
every  now  and  then  from  these  wretched  theatres  of  Pleasure. 
As  Aram  passed  one  of  them,  a  crowd  of  tlie  lowest  order  of 
ruffian  and  harlot  issued  noisily  from  the  door  and  suddenly 
obstructed  his  way:  through  this  vile  press,  reeking  with  the 
stamp  and  odor  of  the  most  repellant  character  of  vice,  was 
the  lofty  and  cold  student  to  force  his  path !  The  darkness, 
his  quick  step,  his  downcast  head,  favored  his  escape  through 
the  unhallowed  throng,  and  he  now  stood  opposite  the  door  of 
a  small  and  narrow  house.  A  ponderous  knocker  adorned  the 
door,  which  seemed  of  uncommon  strength,  being  thickly 
studded  with  large  nails.  He  knocked  twice  before  his  sum- 
mons was  answered,  and  then  a  voice  from  within  cried, 
"  Who  's  there  ?     What  want  you  ?  " 

"I  seek  one  called  Houseman." 

No  answer  was  returned.  Some  moments  elapsed.  Again 
the  student  knocked,  and  presently  he  heard  the  voice  of 
Houseman  himself  call  out, — 

"Who  's  there,  —  Joe  the  Cracksman  ?  " 

"Richard  Houseman,  it  is  I,"  answered  Aram,  in  a  deep 
tone,  and  suppressing  the  natural  feelings  of  loathing  and 
abhorrence. 

Houseman  uttered  a  quick  exclamation;  the  door  was  hast- 
ily  unbarred.     All  within  was  utterly  dark,  but  Aram  felt 


EUGENE   ARAM.  287 

with  a  thrill  of  repugnance  the  gripe  of  his  strange  acquaint- 
ance on  his  hand. 

"Ha!  it  is  you!  Come  in,  come  in!  Let  me  lead  you. 
Have  a  care;  cling  to  the  wall, —  the  right  hand.  Now  then, 
stay.  So,  so  [opening  the  door  of  a  room,  in  which  a  single 
candle,  wellnigh  in  its  socket,  broke  on  the  previous  dark- 
ness] ;  here  we  are,  here  we  are !     And  how  goes  it,  eh  ?  " 

Houseman,  now  bustling  about,  did  the  honors  of  his  apart- 
ment with  a  sort  of  complacent  hospitality.  He  drew  two 
rough  wooden  chairs,  that  in  some  late  merriment  seemed  to 
have  been  upset,  and  lay,  cumbering  the  unwaslied  and  car- 
petless  floor,  in  a  position  exactly  contrary  to  that  destined 
them  by  their  maker, — he  drew  these  chairs  near  a  table 
strewed  with  drinking  horns,  half-emptied  bottles,  and  a  pack 
of  cards.  Dingy  caricatures  of  the  large  coarse  fashion  of  the 
day  decorated  the  Avails ;  and  carelessly  thrown  on  another  table 
lay  a  pair  of  huge  horse-pistols,  an  immense  shovel-hat,  a  false 
mustache,  a  rouge-pot,  and  a  riding-whip.  All  this  the  stu- 
dent comprehended  with  a  rapid  glance;  his  lip  quivered  for 
a  moment,  —  whether  with  shame  or  scorn  of  himself,  —  and 
then,  throwing  himself  on  the  chair  Houseman  had  set  for 
him,  he  said, — 

"I  have  come  to  discharge  my  part  of  our  agreement." 

"You  are  most  welcome,"  replied  Houseman,  with  that  tone 
of  coarse,  yet  flippant  jocularity  which  afforded  to  the  mien 
and  manner  of  Aram  a  still  stronger  contrast  than  his  more 
unrelieved  brutality. 

"There,"  said  Aram,  giving  him  a  paper,  "there  you  will 
perceive  that  the  sum  mentioned  is  secured  to  you  the  mo- 
ment you  quit  this  country.  When  shall  that  be  ?  Let  me 
entreat  haste." 

"Your  prayer  shall  be  granted.  Before  daybreak  to-mor- 
row I  will  be  on  the  road." 

Aram's  face  brightened. 

"There  is  my  hand  upon  it,"  said  Houseman,  earnestly. 
"  You  may  now  rest  assured  that  you  are  free  of  me  for  life. 
Go  home,  marry,  enjoy  your  existence,  as  I  have  done. 
Within  four  days,  if  the  wind  set  fair,  I  am  in  France." 


288  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"My  biisiness  is  done;  I  will  believe  you,"  said  Aram, 
frankly,   and  rising. 

"You  may,"  answered  Houseman.  "Stay  —  I  Avill  light 
you  to  the  door.  Devil  and  death  —  how  the  d — d  candle 
flickers !  " 

Across  the  gloomy  passage  as  the  candle  now  flared,  and 
now  was  dulled,  by  quick  fits  and  starts.  Houseman,  after 
this  brief  conference,  re-conducted  the  student.  And  as  Aram 
turned  from  the  door,  he  flung  his  arms  wildly  aloft,  and  ex- 
claimed, in  the  voice  of  one  from  whose  heart  a  load  is  lifted, 
"  Now,  now,  for  Madeline !     I  breathe  freely  at  last  I  " 

Meanwhile  Houseman  turned  musingly  back  and  regained 
his  room,  muttering, — 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  business  here  is  also  done !  Competence  and 
safety  abroad.  After  all,  what  a  bugbear  is  this  conscience ! 
Fourteen  years  have  rolled  away,  and  lo,  nothing  discovered, 
nothing  known!  And  easy  circumstances  —  the  very  conse- 
quence of  the  deed  —  wait  the  remainder  of  my  days.  My 
child,  too,  my  Jane,  shall  not  want,  —  shall  not  be  a  beggar 
nor  a  harlot." 

So  musing,  Houseman  threw  himself  contentedly  on  the 
chair,  and  the  last  flicker  of  the  expiring  light,  as  it  played 
upward  on  his  rugged  countenance,  rested  on  one  of  those  self- 
hugging  smiles  with  which  a  sanguine  man  contemplates  a 
satisfactory  future. 

He  had  not  been  long  alone  before  the  door  opened  and  a 
woinan  with  a  light  in  her  hand  appeared.  She  was  evidently 
intoxicated,  and  approached  Houseman  with  a  reeling  and 
unsteady  step. 

"  How  now,  Bess  ?  Drunk,  as  usual !  Get  to  bed,  you  she 
shark,  go !  " 

"Tush,  man,  tush!  don't  talk  to  your  betters,"  said  the 
woman,  sinking  into  a  chair;  and  her  situation,  disgusting  as 
it  was,  could  not  conceal  the  striking,  though  somewhat 
coarse,  beauty  of  her  face  and  person. 

Even  Houseman  (his  heart  being  opened,  as  it  were,  by  the 
cheering  prospects  of  which  his  soliloquy  had  indulged  the 
contemplation)  was  sensible  of  the  effect  of  the  mere  physical 


EUGENE   ARAM.  289 

attraction;  and  draAving  his  chair  closer  to  her,  he  said,  in  a 
tone  less  harsh  than  usual, — 

"Come,  Bess,  come,  you  must  correct  that  d — d  habit  of 
yours ;  perhaps  I  may  make  a  lady  of  you  after  all.  What  if 
I  were  to  let  you  take  a  trip  with  me  to  France,  old  girl,  eh, 
and  let  you  set  off  that  handsome  face  —  for  you  are  devilish 
handsome,  and  that 's  the  truth  of  it  —  with  some  of  the  French 
gewgaws  you  women  love  ?  What  if  I  were  ?  Would  you  be 
a  good  girl,  eh?" 

"I  think  I  would,  Dick,  I  think  I  would,"  replied  the 
woman,  showing  a  set  of  teeth  as  white  as  ivory,  with  pleas- 
ure partly  at  the  flattery,  partly  at  the  proposition.  "You 
are  a  good  fellow,  Dick,  that  you  are." 

"Humph!"  said  Houseman,  Avhose  hard,  shrewd  mind  was 
not  easily  cajoled;  "but  what's  that  paper  in  your  bosom, 
Bess  ?     A  love-letter,  I  '11  swear." 

"  'T  is  to  you,  then, — came  to  you  this  morning;  only  some- 
how or  other  I  forgot  to  give  it  you  till  now !  " 

"Ha!  a  letter  to  me!  "  said  Houseman,  seizing  the  epistle  in 
question.  "Hem!  the  Knaresborough  postmark,  —  my  mother- 
in-law's  crabbed  hand,  too!    What  can  the  old  crone  want  ?  " 

He  opened  the  letter,  and  hastily  scanning  its  contents, 
started  up. 

"Mercy,  mercy!"  cried  he,  "my  child  is  ill, — dying.  I 
may  never  see  her  again, —  my  only  child;  the  only  thing  that 
loves  me,  that  does  not  loathe  me  as  a  villain ! " 

"  Heyday,  Dickey ! "  said  the  woman,  clinging  to  him, 
"don't  take  on  so  !  Who  so  fond  of  you  as  me  ?  What 's  a 
brat  like  that  ?  " 

"Curse  on  you,  hag!  "  exclaimed  Houseman,  dashing  her  to 
the  ground  with  a  rude  brutality, —  "yow  love  me!  Pah!  My 
child,  my  little  Jane,  my  pretty  Jane,  my  merry  Jane,  my 
innocent  Jane, —  I  will  seek  her  instantly,  instantly!  What 's 
money,  what's  ease,  if,  if  —  " 

And  the  father,  wretch,  ruffian  as  he  was,  stung  to  the  core 
of  that  last  redeeming  feeling  of  his  dissolute  nature,  struck 
his  breast  with  his  clenched  hand  and  rushed  from  the  room, 
from  the  house 

19 


290  EUGENE   ARAM. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

MADELINE,    HER   HOPES. A    MILD    AUTUMN  CHARACTERIZED. 

A    LANDSCAPE. A    RETURN. 

'T  IS  late  and  cold,  —  stir  up  the  fire; 
Sit  close,  and  draw  the  table  nigher ; 
Be  merry  and  drink  wine  that  's  old,  — 
A  hearty  medicine  'gainst  a  cold. 
Welcome,  welcome  shall  fly  round ! 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  :  Song  in  the  "Lover's  Progress." 

As  when  the  great  poet, — 

"  Escaped  the  Stygian  pool,  though  long  detained 
In  that  oliscure  sojourn  ;  while  in  his  flight, 
Through  utter  and  through  middle  darkness  borne. 
He  sang  of  chaos  and  eternal  night,"  — 

as  when,  revisiting  the  ''holy  light,  offspring  of  heaven  first- 
born," the  sense  of  freshness  and  glory  breaks  upon  him  and 
kindles  into  the  solemn  joyfulness  of  adjuring  song,  so  rises 
the  mind  from  tlie  contemplation  of  the  gloom  and  guilt  of 
life,  "the  utter  and  the  middle  darkness,"  to  some  pure  and 
bright  redemption  of  our  nature, —  some  creature  of  "the 
starry  threshold,"  "the  regions  mild  of  calm  and  serene  air." 
Never  was  a  nature  more  beautiful  and  soft  than  that  of  Made- 
line Lester;  never  a  nature  more  inclined  to  live  "above  the 
smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim  spot  which  men  call  earth,"  to 
commune  with  its  own  high  and  chaste  creations  of  thought, 
to  make  a  world  out  of  the  emotions  which  this  world  knows 
not, —  a  paradise  which  sin  and  suspicion  and  fear  had  never 
yet  invaded,  where  God  might  recognize  no  evil,  and  angels 
forbode  no  change. 

Aram's  return  was  now  daily,  nay,  even  hourly,  expected. 
Nothing  disturbed  the  soft,  though  thoughtful,  serenity  with 
which  his  betrothed  relied  upon  the  future.     Aram's  letters 


EUGENE  ARAM.  291 

had  been  more  deeply  impressed  with  the  evidence  of  love 
than  even  his  spoken  vows ;  those  letters  had  diffused  not  so 
much  an  agitated  joy  as  a  full  and  mellow  light  of  happiness 
over  her  heart.  Everything,  even  Nature,  seemed  inclined  to 
smile  with  approbation  on  her  hopes.  The  autumn  had  never, 
in  the  memory  of  man,  worn  so  lovely  a  garment;  the  balmy 
and  freshening  warmth  which  sometimes  characterizes  that  pe- 
riod of  the  year  was  not  broken,  as  yet,  by  the  chilling  winds 
or  the  sullen  mists  which  speak  to  us  so  mournfully  of  the 
change  that  is  creeping  over  the  beautiful  world.  The  sum- 
mer visitants  among  the  feathered  tribe  yet  lingered  in  flocks, 
showing  no  intention  of  departure,  and  their  song  —  but  above 
all,  the  song  of  the  skylark,  which  to  the  old  English  poet  was 
what  the  nightingale  is  to  the  Eastern  —  seemed  even  to  grow 
more  cheerful  as  the  sun  shortened  his  daily  task;  the  very 
mulberry-tree  and  the  rich  boughs  of  the  horse-chestnut  re- 
tained something  of  their  verdure ;  and  the  thousand  glories 
of  the  woodland  around  Grassdale  were  still  checkered  with 
the  golden  hues  that  herald,  but  beautify,  decay.  Still  no 
news  had  been  received  of  Walter;  and  this  was  the  only 
source  of  anxiety  that  troubled  the  domestic  happiness  of  the 
manor-house.  But  the  squire  continued  to  remember  that  in 
youth  he  himself  had  been  but  a  negligent  correspondent;  and 
the  anxiety  he  felt  had  lately  assumed  rather  the  character 
of  anger  at  Walter's  forgetfulness  than  of  fear  for  his  safety. 
There  were  moments  when  Ellinor  silently  mourned  and 
pined;  but  she  loved  her  sister  not  less  even  than  her  cousin, 
and  in  the  prospect  of  Madeline's  happiness  did  not  too  often 
question  the  future  respecting  her  own. 

One  evening  the  sisters  were  sitting  at  their  work  by  the 
window  of  the  little  parlor,  and  talking  over  various  matters, 
of  which  the  Great  World,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  never 
made  a  part. 

They  conversed  in  a  low  tone ;  for  Lester  sat  by  the  hearth, 
in  which  a  wood-fire  had  been  just  kindled,  and  appeared  to 
have  fallen  into  an  afternoon  slumber.  The  sun  was  sinking 
to  repose,  and  the  whole  landscape  lay  before  them  bathed  in 
light,  till  a  cloud  passing  overhead  darkened  the  heavens  just 


292  EUGENE   ARAM. 

immediately  above  them,  and  one  of  those  beautiful  sun- 
showers,  that  rather  characterize  the  spring  than  autumn,  be- 
gan to  fall.  The  rain  was  rather  sharp,  and  descended  with  a 
pleasant  and  freshening  noise  through  the  boughs,  all  shining 
in  the  sunlight;  it  did  not,  however,  last  long,  and  presently 
there  sprang  up  the  glorious  rainbow,  and  the  voices  of  the 
birds,  which  a  minute  before  were  mute,  burst  into  a  gene- 
ral chorus, — the  last  hymn  of  the  declining  day.  The  spark- 
ling drops  fell  fast  and  gratefully  from  the  trees,  and  over 
the  whole  scene  there  breathed  an  inexpressible  sense  of 
gladness, — 

"  The  odor  and  the  harmony  of  eve." 

"  How  beautiful !  "  said  Ellinor,  pausing  from  her  work. 
"Ah!  see  the  squirrel, —  is  that  our  pet  one  ?  —  he  is  coming 
close  to  the  window,  poor  fellow !  Stay ;  I  will  get  him  some 
bread." 

"Hush!"  said  Madeline,  half  rising,  and  turning  quite 
pale;   "do  you  hear  a  step  without?" 

"Only  the  dripping  of  the  boughs,"  answered  Ellinor. 

"No,  no, —  it  is  he!  it  is  he!"  cried  Madeline,  the  blood 
rushing  back  vividly  to  her  cheeks.     "I  know  his  step!  " 

And — yes,  winding  round  the  house  till  he  stood  opposite 
the  window,  the  sisters  now  beheld  Eugene  Aram.  The  dia- 
mond rain  glittered  on  the  locks  of  his  long  hair;  his  cheeks 
were  flushed  by  exercise,  or  more  probably  the  joy  of  return; 
a  smile,  in  which  there  was  no  shade  or  sadness,  played  over 
his  features,  which  caught  also  a  fictitious  semblance  of  glad- 
ness from  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  which  fell  full  upon 
them. 

"  My  Madeline !  my  love !  my  Madeline ! "  broke  from  his 
lips. 

"  You  are  returned, — thank  God !  thank  God !  safe !    Well  ?  " 

"And  happy!"  added  Aram,  with  a  deep  meaning  in  the 
tone  of  his  voice. 

"Heyday,  heyday!"  cried  the  squire,  starting  up,  "what's 
this  ?  Bless  me,  Eugene !  —  wet  through,  too,  seemingly ! 
Nell,  run  and  open  the  door, —  more  wood  on  the  fire;   the 


EUGENE   ARAM.  293 

pheasants  for  supper.  And  stay,  girl,  stay, —  there  's  the  key 
of  the  cellar:  the  twenty -one  port, — you  know  it.  Ah!  ah! 
God  willing,  Eugene  Aram  shall  not  complain  of  his  welcome 
back  to  Grassdale !  " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

affection:  its  godlike  nature. —  THE  CONVERSATION  BE- 
TWEEN ARAM  AND  MADELINE.  —  THE  FATALIST  FORGETS 
FATE. 

Hope  is  a  lover's  staff ;  walk  hence  with  that, 
And  manage  it  against  despairing  thoughts. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

If  there  be  anything  thoroughly  lovely  in  the  human  heart 
it  is  affection.  All  that  makes  hope  elevated  or  fear  generous 
belongs  to  the  capacity  of  loving.  For  my  own  part,  I  do  not 
wonder,  in  looking  over  the  thousand  creeds  and  sects  of  men, 
that  so  many  religionists  have  traced  their  theology,  that  so 
many  moralists  have  wrought  their  system,  from  love.  The 
errors  thus  originated  have  something  in  them  that  charms 
us,  even  while  we  smile  at  the  theology  or  while  we  neglect 
the  system.  What  a  beautiful  fabric  would  be  human  nature, 
what  a  divine  guide  would  be  human  reason,  if  love  were  in- 
deed the  stratum  of  the  one  and  the  inspiration  of  the  other ! 
We  are  told  of  a  picture  by  a  great  painter  of  old,  in  which 
an  infant  is  represented  sucking  a  mother  wounded  to  the 
death,  who,  even  in  that  agony,  strives  to  prevent  the  child 
from  injuring  itself  by  imbibing  the  blood  mingled  with  the 
milk.-'  How  many  emotions,  that  might  have  made  us  per- 
manently wiser  and  better,  have  we  lost  in  losing  that  picture  I 

Certainly  love  assumes  a  more  touching  and  earnest  sem- 
blance when  we  find  it  in  some  retired  and  sequestered  hollow 
of  the  world.     When  it  is  not  mixed  up  with  the  daily  frivol- 

1  "  Intelligitur  sentire  mater  et  timere,  ne  e  mortuo  lacte  sanguinem 
lambat." 


294  EUGENE   ARAM. 

ities  and  petty  emotions  of  which  a  life  passed  in  cities  is  so 
necessarily  composed,  we  cannot  but  believe  it  a  deeper  and 
a  more  absorbing  passion :  perhaps  we  are  not  always  right  in 
the  belief. 

Had  one  of  that  order  of  angels  to  whom  a  knowledge  of  the 
future,  or  the  seraphic  penetration  into  the  hidden  heart  of 
man,  is  forbidden,  stayed  his  wings  over  the  lovely  valley  in 
which  the  main  scene  of  our  history  has  been  cast,  no  specta- 
cle might  have  seemed  to  him  more  appropriate  to  that  pas- 
toral spot,  or  more  elevated  in  the  character  of  its  tenderness 
above  the  fierce  and  short-lived  passions  of  the  ordinary  world, 
than  the  love  that  existed  between  Madeline  and  her  be- 
trothed. Their  natures  seemed  so  suited  to  each  other, —  the 
solemn  and  undluriial  mood  of  the  one  was  reflected  back  in 
hues  so  gentle,  and  yet  so  faithful,  from  the  purer,  but  scarce 
less  thoughtful,  character  of  the  other.  Their  sympathies  ran 
through  the  same  channel,  and  mingled  in  a  common  fount; 
and  whatever  was  dark  and  troubled  in  the  breast  of  Aram 
was  now  suffered  not  to  appear.  Since  his  return  his  mood 
was  brighter  and  more  tranquil,  and  he  seemed  better  fitted 
to  appreciate  and  respond  to  the  peculiar  tenderness  of  Made- 
line's affection.  There  are  some  stars  which,  viewed  by  the 
naked  eye,  seem  one,  but  in  reality  are  two  separate  orbs, 
revolving  round  each  other,  and  drinking,  each  from  each,  a 
separate  yet  united  existence:  such  stars  seemed  a  type  of 
them. 

Had  anything  been  wanting  to  complete  Madeline's  happi- 
ness, the  change  in  Aram  supplied  the  want.  The  sudden 
starts,  the  abrupt  changes  of  mood  and  countenance,  that  had 
formerly  characterized  him,  were  now  scarcely,  if  ever,  visible. 
He  seemed  to  have  resigned  himself  with  confidence  to  the 
prospects  of  the  future,  and  to  have  forsworn  the  haggard 
recollections  of  the  past;  he  moved  and  looked  and  smiled 
like  other  men;  he  was  alive  to  the  little  circumstances  around 
him,  and  no  longer  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  a  sepa- 
rate and  strange  existence  within  himself.  Some  scattered 
fragments  of  his  poetry  bear  the  date  of  this  time :  they  are 
chiefly  addressed  to  Madeline;  and  amidst  the  vows  of  love, 


EUGENE   ARAM.  295 

a  spirit,  sometimes  of  a  wild  and  bursting,  sometimes  of  a 
profound  and  collected,  happiness  are  visible.  There  is  great 
beauty  in  many  of  these  fragments,  and  they  bear  a  stronger 
evidence  of  heart,  they  breathe  more  of  nature  and  truth,  than 
the  poetry  that  belongs  of  right  to  that  time. 

And  thus  day  rolled  on  day,  till  it  was  now  the  eve  before 
their  bridals.  Aram  had  deemed  it  prudent  to  tell  Lester  that 
he  had  sold  his  annuity,  and  that  he  had  applied  to  the  earl 
for  the  pension  which  we  have  seen  he  had  been  promised. 
As  to  his  supposed  relation,  the  illness  he  had  created  he 
suffered  now  to  cease ;  and  indeed  the  approaching  ceremony 
gave  him  a  graceful  excuse  for  turning  the  conversation  away 
from  any  topics  that  did  not  relate  to  Madeline  or  to  that 
event.  It  was  the  eve  before  their  marriage :  Aram  and  Made- 
line were  walking  along  the  valley  that  led  to  the  house  of 
the  former. 

"How  fortunate  it  is,"  said  Madeline,  "that  our  future  res- 
idence will  be  so  near  my  father's!  I  cannot  tell  you  with 
what  delight  he  looks  forward  to  the  pleasant  circle  we  shall 
make.  Indeed,  I  think  he  would  scarcely  have  consented  to 
our  wedding,  if  it  had  separated  us  from  him." 

Aram  stopped,  and  plucked  a  flower. 

"Ah!  indeed,  indeed,  Madeline.  Yet  in  the  course  of  the 
various  changes  of  life,  how  more  than  probable  it  is  that  we 
shall  be  divided  from  him, — that  we  shall  leave  this  spot." 

"It  is  possible,  certainly;  but  not  probable,  is  it,  Eugene  ?" 

"  Would  it  grieve  thee,  irremediably,  dearest,  were  it  so  ?  " 
rejoined  Aram,  evasively. 

"Irremediably!  What  could  grieve  me  irremediably  that 
did  not  happen  to  you  ?  " 

"Should,  then,  circumstances  occur  to  induce  us  to  leave 
this  part  of  the  country  for  one  yet  more  remote,  you  could 
submit  cheerfully  to  the  change  ?  " 

"I  should  weep  for  my  father,  I  should  weep  for  Ellinor; 
but  —  " 

"But  what?" 

"  I  should  comfort  myself  in  thinking  that  you  would  then 
be  yet  more  to  me  than  ever!  " 


296  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"Dearest!" 

"But  why  do  you  speak  thus, —  only  to  try  me  ?  Ah!  that 
is  needless." 

"No,  my  Madeline,  I  have  no  doubt  of  your  affection. 
When  you  loved  such  as  me,  I  knew  at  once  how  blind,  how 
devoted  must  be  that  love.  You  were  not  won  through  the 
usual  avenues  to  a  woman's  heart ;  neither  wit  nor  gayety, 
nor  youth  nor  beauty,  did  you  behold  in  me.  Whatever  at- 
tracted you  towards  me,  that  which  must  have  been  suffi- 
ciently powerful  to  make  you  overlook  these  ordinary  allure- 
ments, will  be  also  sufficiently  enduring  to  resist  all  ordinary 
changes.  But  listen,  Madeline.  Do  not  yet  ask  me  where- 
fore, but  I  fear  that  a  certain  fatality  will  constrain  us  to 
leave  this  spot  very  shortly  after  our  wedding." 

"  How  disappointed  my  poor  father  will  be ! "  said  Made- 
line, sighing. 

"Do  not  on  any  account  mention  this  conversation  to  him 
or  to  EUinor :  '  Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof. '  " 

Madeline  wondered,  but  said  no  more.  There  was  a  pause 
for  some  minutes. 

"Do  you  remember,"  observed  Madeline,  "that  it  was  about 
here  we  met  that  strange  man  whom  you  had  formerly  known  ?  " 

"  Ha!  was  it  ?     Here,  was  it  ?" 

"  What  has  become  of  him  ?  " 

"He  is  abroad,  I  hope,"  said  Aram,  calmly.  "Yes,  let  me 
think:  by  this  time  he  rrnist  be  in  France.  Dearest,  let  us 
rest  here  on  this  dry  mossy  bank  for  a  little  while ;  "  and 
Aram  drew  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and,  his  countenance 
brightening  as  if  with  some  thought  of  increasing  joy,  he 
poured  out  anew  those  protestations  of  love,  and  those  anti- 
cipations of  the  future,  which  befitted  the  eve  of  a  morrow  so 
full  of  auspicious  promise. 

The  heaven  of  their  fate  seemed  calm  and  glowing,  and 
Aram  did  not  dream  that  the  one  small  cloud  of  fear  which 
was  set  within  it,  and  which  he  alone  beheld  afar,  and  un- 
prophetic  of  the  storm,  was  charged  with  the  thunderbolt  of  a 
doom  he  had  protracted,  not  escaped. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  297 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WALTER   AND    THE    CORPORAL    ON    THE    ROAD. THE    EVENING 

SETS      IN. THE     GYPSY      TENTS.  ADVENTURE     WITH      THE 

HORSEMAN. THE    CORPORAL     DISCOMFITED,     AND     THE     AR- 
RIVAL  AT    KNARESBOROUGH. 

Long  had  he  wandered,  wken  from  far  he  sees 
A  ruddy  flame  that  gleamed  betwixt  the  trees. 
.     .     .     Sir  Gawaiue  prays  him  tell 
Where  lies  the  road  to  princely  Carduel. 

The  Knight  of  the  Sword. 

"Well,  Bunting,  we  are  not  far  from  our  night's  resting- 
place,"  said  Walter,  pointing  to  a  milestone  on  the  road. 

"The  poor  beast  will  be  glad  when  we  gets  there,  your 
honor,"  answered  the  corporal,  wiping  his  brows. 

"Which  beast.  Bunting  ?" 

"  Augh!  now  your  honor  's  severe!  I  am  glad  to  see  you  so 
merry." 

Walter  sighed  heavily;  there  was  no  mirth  at  his  heart  at 
that  moment. 

"Pray,  sir,"  said  the  corporal,  after  a  pause,  "if  not  too 
bold,  has  your  honor  heard  how  they  be  doing  at  Grassdale  ?  " 

"No,  Bunting;  I  have  not  held  any  correspondence  with  my 
uncle  since  our  departure.  Once  I  wrote  to  him  on  setting 
off  to  Yorkshire,  but  I  could  give  him  no  direction  to  write 
to  me  again.  The  fact  is,  that  I  have  been  so  sanguine  in 
this  search,  and  from  day  to  day  I  have  been  so  led  on  in 
tracing  a  clew,  which  I  fear  is  now  broken,  that  I  have  con- 
stantly put  off  writing  till  I  could  communicate  that  certain 
intelligence  which  I  flattered  myself  I  should  be  able  ere  this 
to  procure.  However,  if  we  are  unsuccessful  at  Knares- 
borough,  I  shall  write  from  that  place  a  detailed  account  of 
our  proceedings." 


298  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"  And  I  hopes  you  will  say  as  how  I  have  given  your  honor 
satisfaction." 

"Depend  upon  that." 

"Thank  you,  sir,  thank  you  humbly;  I  would  not  like  the 
squire  to  think  I  'm  ungrateful,  augh !  And  mayhap  I  may 
have  more  cause  to  be  grateful  by  and  by,  whenever  the 
squire,  God  bless  him!  in  consideration  of  your  honor's  good 
offices,  should  let  me  have  the  bit  cottage  rent  free." 

"  A  man  of  the  world.  Bunting,  a  man  of  the  world !  " 

"  Your  honor  's  mighty  obleeging, "  said  the  corporal,  put- 
ting his  hand  to  his  hat.  "I  wonders,"  renewed  he,  after  a 
short  pause,  "I  wonders  how  poor  neighbor  Dealtry  is;  he 
was  a  sufferer  last  year.  I  should  like  to  know  how  Peter 
be  getting  on, —  'tis  a  good  creature." 

Somewhat  surprised  at  this  sudden  sympathy  on  the  part 
of  the  corporal,  for  it  was  seldom  that  Bunting  expressed 
kindness  for  any  one,  Walter  replied, — 

"  When  I  write.  Bunting,  I  will  not  fail  to  inquire  how 
Peter  Dealtry  is;  does  your  kind  heart  suggest  any  other 
message  to  him  ?  " 

"Only  to  ask  arter  Jacobina,  poor  thing,  —  she  might  get 
herself  into  trouble  if  little  Peter  fell  sick  and  neglected  her 
like,  augh!  And  I  hopes  as  how  Peter  airs  the  bit  cottage 
now  and  then.  But  tlie  squire,  God  bless  him!  will  see  to 
that  and  the  'tato-garden,  I  'm  sure." 

"You  may  rely  on  that.  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  sinking  into 
a  revery,  from  which  he  was  shortly  roused  by  the  corporal. 

"  I  'spose  Miss  Madeline  be  married  afore  now,  your  honor  ? 
Well,  pray  Heaven  she  be  happy  with  that  'ere  larned  man !  " 

Walter's  heart  beat  faster  for  a  moment  at  this  sudden  re- 
mark; but  he  was  pleased  to  find  that  the  time  when  the 
thought  of  Madeline's  marriage  was  accompanied  with  painful 
emotion  was  entirely  gone  by.  The  reflection,  however,  in- 
duced a  new  train  of  idea,  and  without  replying  to  the  cor- 
poral, he  sank  into  a  deeper  meditation  than  before. 

The  shrewd  Bunting  saw  that  it  was  not  a  favorable  moment 
for  renewing  the  conversation;  he  therefore  suffered  his  horse 
to  fall  back,  and  taking  a  quid  from  his  tobacco-box,  was  soon 


EUGENE   ARAM.  299 

as  well  entertained  as  his  master.  In  this  manner  they  rode 
on  for  about  a  couple  of  miles,  the  evening  growing  darker  as 
they  proceeded,  when  a  green  opening  in  the  road  brought 
them  within  view  of  a  gypsy's  encampment.  The  scene  was  so 
sudden  and  picturesque  that  it  aroused  the  young  traveller  from 
his  revery;  and  as  his  tired  horse  walked  slowly  on,  the  bridle 
about  its  neck,  he  looked  with  an  earnest  eye  on  the  vagrant 
settlement  beside  his  path.  The  moon  had  just  risen  above 
a  dark  copse  in  the  rear,  and  cast  a  broad,  deep  shadow  along 
the  green,  without  lessening  the  vivid  effect  of  the  fires  which 
glowed  and  sparkled  in  the  darker  recess  of  the  waste  land  as 
the  gloomy  forms  of  the  Egyptians  were  seen  dimly  cowering 
round  the  blaze.  A  scene  of  this  sort  is  perhaps  one  of  the 
most  striking  that  the  green  lanes  of  old  England  afford;  to 
me  it  has  always  an  irresistible  attraction,  partly  from  its 
own  claims,  partly  from  those  of  association.  When  I  was  a 
mere  boy,  and  bent  on  a  solitary  excursion  over  parts  of  Eng- 
land and  Scotland,  I  saw  something  of  that  wild  people, — 
though  not  perhaps  so  much  as  the  ingenious  George  Hanger, 
to  whose  memoirs  the  reader  may  be  referred  for  some  rather 
amusing  pages  on  gypsy  life.  As  Walter  was  still  eying  the 
encampment,  he  in  return  had  not  escaped  the  glance  of  an  old 
crone,  who  came  running  hastily  up  to  him,  and  begged  per- 
mission to  tell  his  fortune  and  to  have  her  hand  crossed  with 
silver. 

Very  few  men  under  thirty  ever  sincerely  refuse  an  offer  of 
this  sort.  Nobody  believes  in  these  predictions,  yet  every  one 
likes  hearing  them ;  and  Walter,  after  faintly  refusing  the  pro- 
posal twice,  consented  the  third  time,  and  drawing  up  his 
horse,  submitted  his  hand  to  the  old  lady.  In  the  mean  while 
one  of  the  younger  urchins  who  had  accompanied  her  had  run 
to  the  encampment  for  a  light,  and  now  stood  behind  the  old 
woman's  shoulder,  rearing  on  high  a  pine  brand,  which  cast 
over  the  little  group  a  red  and  weird-like  glow. 

The  reader  must  not  imagine  we  are  now  about  to  call  his 
credvility  in  aid  to  eke  out  any  interest  he  may  feel  in  our 
story ;  the  old  crone  was  but  a  vulgar  gypsy,  and  she  predicted 
to  Walter  the  same  fortune  she  always  predicted  to  those 


800  EUGENE  ARAM. 

who  paid  a  shilling  for  the  prophecy, —  an  heiress  with  blue 
eyes,  seven  children,  troubles  about  the  epoch  of  forty-three, 
happily  soon  over,  and  a  healthy  old  age,  with  an  easy  death. 
Though  Walter  was  not  impressed  with  any  reverential  awe 
for  these  vaticinations,  he  yet  could  not  refrain  from  inquir- 
ing whether  the  journey  on  which  he  was  at  present  bent  was 
likely  to  prove  successful  in  its  object. 

"  'T  is  an  ill  night,"  said  the  old  woman,  lifting  up  her  wild 
face  and  elfin  locks  with  a  mysterious  air, —  "  't  is  an  ill  night 
for  them  as  seeks  and  for  them  as  asks.     He  's  about  —  " 

"He,— who?" 

"No  matter!  You  may  be  successful,  young  sir,  yet  wish 
you  had  not  been  so.  The  moon  thus,  and  the  wind  there, 
promise  that  you  will  get  your  desires,  and  find  them  crosses." 

The  corporal  had  listened  very  attentively  to  these  predic- 
tions, and  was  now  about  to  thrust  forth  his  own  hand  to  the 
soothsayer,  when  from  a  cross  road  to  the  right  came  the 
sound  of  hoofs,  and  presently  a  horseman  at  full  trot  pulled 
up  beside  them. 

"Hark  ye,  old  she-devil, —  or  you,  sirs, —  is  this  the  road  to 
Knaresborough  ?  " 

The  gypsy  drew  back,  and  gazed  on  the  countenance  of  the 
rider,  on  which  the  red  glare  of  the  pine-brand  shone  full. 

"To  Knaresborough,  Richard  the  dare-devil?  Ay,  and  what 
does  the  ramping  bird  want  in  the  old  nest  ?  Welcome  back 
to  Yorkshire,  Richard,  my  ben  cove !  " 

"Ha!  "  said  the  rider,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand  as  he 
returned  the  gaze  of  the  gypsy,  "is  it  you,  Bess  Airlie? 
Your  welcome  is  like  the  owl's,  and  reads  the  wrong  way. 
But  I  must  not  stop.     This  takes  to  Knaresborough,  then  ?  " 

"  Straight  as  a  dying  man's  curse  to  hell,"  replied  the  crone, 
in  that  metaphorical  style  in  which  all  her  tribe  love  to  speak, 
and  of  which  their  proper  language  is  indeed  almost  wholly 
composed. 

The  horseman  answered  not,  but  spurred  on. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  asked  Walter,  earnestly,  as  the  old  woman 
stretched  her  tawny  neck  after  the  rider. 

"  An  old  friend,  sir, "  replied  the  Egyptian,  dryly.     "  I  have 


EUGENE  ARAM.  801 

not  seen  him  these  fourteen  years ;  but  it  is  not  Bess  Airlie 
who  is  apt  to  forgit  friend  or  foe.  Well,  sir,  shall  I  tell  your 
honor's  good  luck  ?  "  (here  she  turned  to  the  corporal,  who  sat 
erect  on  his  saddle,  with  his  hand  on  his  holster)  —  "the  color 
of  the  lady's  hair  and  —  " 

"Hold  your  tongue,  you  limb  of  Satan!"  interrupted  the 
corporal,  fiercely,  as  if  his  whole  tide  of  thought,  so  lately 
favorable  to  the  soothsayer,  had  undergone  a  deadly  rever- 
sion. "Please  your  honor,  it's  getting  late;  we  had  better 
be  jogging!" 

"You  are  right,"  said  Walter,  spurring  his  jaded  horse; 
and,  nodding  his  adieu  to  the  gypsy,  he  was  soon  out  of  sight 
of  the  encampment. 

"Sir,"  said  the  corporal,  joining  his  master,  "that  is  a  man 
as  I  have  seed  afore;  I  knowed  his  ugly  face  again  in  a 
crack,  —  't  is  the  man  what  came  to  Grassdale  arter  Mr. 
Aram,  and  we  saw  arterwards  the  night  we  chanced  on  Sir 
Peter  Thingumebob. " 

"  Bunting, "  said  Walter,  in  a  low  voice,  "  /  too  have  been 
trying  to  recall  the  face  of  that  man,  and  I  too  am  persuaded 
I  have  seen  it  before.  A  fearful  suspicion,  amounting  almost 
to  conviction,  creeps  over  me  that  the  hour  in  which  I  last 
saw  it  was  one  when  my  life  was  in  peril.  In  a  word,  I  do 
believe  that  I  beheld  that  face  bending  over  me  on  the  night 
when  I  lay  under  the  hedge  and  so  nearly  escaped  murder.  If 
I  am  right  it  was,  however,  the  mildest  of  the  ruffians, — the 
one  who  counselled  his  comrades  against  despatching  me." 

The  corporal  shuddered. 

"Pray,  sir,"  said  he,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "do  see  if  your 
pistols  are  primed,  —  so,  so.  'Tis  not  out  o'  nature  that  the 
man  may  have  some  'complices  hereabout,  and  may  think  to 
waylay  us.  The  old  gypsy,  too,  what  a  face  she  had!  De- 
pend on  it,  they  are  two  of  a  trade,  augh !  bother !  whaugh !  " 

And  the  corporal  grunted  his  most  significant  grunt. 

"It  is  not  at  all  unlikely.  Bunting;  and  as  we  are  now  not 
far  from  Knaresborough,  it  will  be  prudent  to  ride  on  as  fast 
as  our  horses  will  allow  us.     Keep  up  alongside." 

"  Certainly,    I  '11  purtect  your   honor, "   said   the   corporal, 


302  EUGENE  ARAM. 

getting  on  that  side  where,  the  hedge  being  thinnest,  an  am- 
bush was  less  likely  to  be  laid.  "  I  care  more  for  your  honor's 
safety  than  my  own,  or  what  a  brute  I  should  be,  augh !  " 

The  master  and  man  trotted  on  for  some  little  distance, 
when  they  perceived  a  dark  object  moving  along  by  the  grass 
on  the  side  of  the  road.  The  corporal's  hair  bristled;  he 
uttered  an  oath,  which  he  mistook  for  a  prayer.  Walter  felt 
his  breath  grow  a  little  thick  as  he  watched  the  motions  of  the 
object  so  imperfectly  beheld;  presently,  however,  it  grew 
into  a  man  on  horseback,  trotting  very  slowly  along  the  grass ; 
and  as  they  now  neared  him,  they  recognized  the  rider  they 
had  just  seen,  whom  they  might  have  imagined,  from  the  pace 
at  which  he  left  them  before,  to  have  been  considerably  ahead 
of  them. 

The  horseman  turned  round  as  he  saw  them. 

"Pray,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  great  and  evident 
anxiety,  "  how  far  is  it  to  Knaresborough  ?  " 

"Don't  answer  him,  your  honor,"  whispered  the  corporal. 

"Probably,"  replied  Walter,  unheeding  this  advice,  "you 
know  this  road  better  than  we  do.  It  cannot,  however,  be 
above  three  or  four  miles  hence." 

"Thank  you,  sir, —  it  is  long  since  I  have  been  in  these 
parts.  I  used  to  know  the  country;  but  they  have  made  new 
roads  and  strange  enclosures,  and  I  now  scarcely  recognize 
anything  familiar.  Curse  on  this  brute!  curse  on  it,  I  say!  " 
repeated  the  horseman  through  his  ground  teeth,  in  a  tone  of 
angry  vehemence.  "  I  never  wanted  to  ride  so  quick  before, 
and  the  beast  has  fallen  as  lame  as  a  tree.  This  comes  of  try- 
ing to  go  faster  than  other  folks.     Sir,  are  you  a  father  ?  " 

This  abrupt  question,  which  was  uttered  in  a  sharp,  strained 
voice,  a  little  startled  Walter.  He  replied  shortly  in  the 
negative,  and  was  about  to  spur  onward,  when  the  horseman 
continued, —  and  there  was  something  in  his  voice  and  manner 
that  compelled  attention, — 

"And  I  am  in  doubt  whether  I  have  a  child  or  not.  By 
G  — !  it  is  a  bitter,  gnawing  state  of  mind.  I  may  reach 
Knaresborough  to  find  my  only  daughter  dead,  sir,  dead !  " 

Despite  Walter's  suspicions  of  the  speaker,  he  could  not  but 


EUGENE  ARAM.  303 

feel  a  thrill  of  sympathy  at  the  visible  distress  with  which 
these  words  were  said. 

"  I  hope  not, "  said  he,  involuntaril3\ 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  the  horseman,  trying  ineffectu- 
ally to  spur  on  his  steed,  which  almost  came  down  at  the 
effort  to  proceed.  "I  have  ridden  thirty  miles  across  the 
country  at  full  speed,  for  they  had  no  post-horses  at  the  d — d 
place  where  I  hired  this  brute.  This  was  the  only  creature  I 
could  get  for  love  or  money;  and  now  the  devil  only  knows 
how  important  every  moment  may  be.  While  I  speak,  my 
child  may  breathe  her  last ! "  And  the  man  brought  his 
clenched  fist  on  the  shoulder  of  his  horse  in  mingled  spite  and 
rage. 

"All  sham,  your  honor,"  whispered  the  corporal. 

"Sir,"  cried  the  horseman,  now  raising  his  voice,  "I  need 
not  have  asked  if  you  had  been  a  father, —  if  you  had,  you 
would  have  had  compassion  on  me  ere  this;  you  would  have 
lent  me  your  own  horse." 

"  The  impudent  rogue !  "  muttered  the  corporal. 

"Sir,"  replied  Walter,  "it  is  not  to  the  tale  of  every 
stranger  that  a  man  gives  belief." 

"Belief!  Ah,  well,  well!  'tis  no  matter,"  said  the  horse- 
man, sullenly.  "  There  was  a  time,  man,  when  1  would  have 
forced  what  I  now  solicit;  but  my  heart's  gone.  Ride  on, 
sir,  ride  on,   and  the  curse  of  — " 

"If,"  interrupted  Walter,  irresolutely,  "if  I  could  believe 
your  statement —  But,  no.  Mark  me,  sir,  I  have  reasons,  fear- 
ful reasons,  for  imagining  that  you  mean  this  but  as  a  snare !  " 

"Ha!"  said  the  horseman,  deliberately,  "have  we  met 
before  ?  " 

"I  believe  so." 

"  And  you  have  had  cause  to  complain  of  me  ?  It  may  be, 
it  may  be ;  but  were  the  grave  before  me,  and  if  one  lie  would 
smite  me  into  it,  I  solemnly  swear  that  I  now  utter  but  the 
naked  truth." 

"  It  would  be  folly  to  trust  him.  Bunting  ?  "  said  Walter, 
turning  round  to  his  attendant. 

"Folly,  sheer  madness  —  bother!  " 


304  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"If  you  are  the  man  I  take  you  for,"  said  Walter,  "you 
once  raised  your  voice  against  the  murder,  though  you  assisted 
in  the  robbery,  of  a  traveller;  that  traveller  was  myself.  I 
will  remember  the  mercy, —  I  will  forget  the  outrage;  and  I 
will  not  believe  that  you  have  devised  this  tale  as  a  snare. 
Take  my  horse,   sir;    I  will  trust  you." 

Houseman,  for  it  was  he,  flung  himself  instantly  from  his 
saddle.  "I  don't  ask  God  to  bless  you:  a  blessing  in  my 
mouth  would  be  worse  than  a  curse.  But  you  will  not  repent 
this ;  you  will  not  repent  it!  " 

Houseman  said  these  few  words  with  a  palpable  emotion; 
and  it  was  more  striking  on  account  of  the  evident  coarseness 
and  hardened  brutality  of  his  nature.  In  a  moment  more  he 
had  mounted  Walter's  horse;  and  turning  ere  he  sped  on, 
inquired  at  what  place  at  Knaresborough  the  horse  should  be 
sent.  Walter  directed  him  to  the  principal  inn;  and  House- 
man, waving  his  hand  and  striking  his  spurs  into  the  animal, 
wearied  as  it  was,   shot  out  of  sight  in  a  moment. 

"  Well,  if  ever  I  seed  the  like !  "  quoth  the  corporal.  "  Lira, 
lira,  la,  la,  la !  lira,  lara,    la,  la,  la !  augh  !  waugh !  bother ! " 

"  So  my  good-nature  does  not  please  you,  Bunting  ?  " 

"Oh,  sir,  it  does  not  sinnify, —  we  shall  have  our  throats 
cut,   that's  all!" 

"What,  you  don't  believe  the  story  ?" 

"I  ?     Bless  your  honor,  /am  no  fool." 

"Bunting!" 

"Sir." 

"You  forget  yourself." 

"Augh!" 

"  So  you  don't  think  I  should  have  lent  the  horse  ?" 

"Sartinly  not." 

"  On  occasions  like  these,  every  man  ought  to  take  care  of 
himself  ?     Prudence  before  generosity  ?  " 

"Of  a  sartainty,  sir!  " 

"Dismount,  then;  I  want  my  horse.  You  may  shift  with 
the  lame  one." 

"Augh,  sir,  baiigh!" 

"  Rascal,  dismount,  I  say ! "  said  Walter,  angrily ;  for  the 


EUGENE   ARAM.  305 

corporal  was  one  of  those  men  who  aim  at  governing  their 
masters ;  and  his  selfishness  now  irritated  Walter  as  much  as 
his  impertinent  tone  of  superior  wisdom. 

The  corporal  hesitated.  He  thought  an  ambuscade  by  the 
road  of  certain  occurrence ;  and  he  was  weighing  the  danger 
of  riding  a  lame  horse  against  his  master's  displeasure. 
Walter,  perceiving  he  demurred,  was  seized  with  so  violent 
a  resentment  that  he  dashed  up  to  the  corporal,  and  grasping 
him  by  the  collar,  swung  him,  heavy  as  he  was, —  being 
wholly  unprepared  for  such  force, —  to  the  ground. 

Without  deigning  to  look  at  his  condition,  Walter  mounted 
the  sound  horse,  and  throwing  the  bridle  of  the  lame  one  over 
a  bough,  left  the  corporal  to  follow  at  his  leisure. 

There  is  not,  perhaps,  a  more  sore  state  of  mind  than  that 
which  we  experience  when  we  have  committed  an  act  we 
meant  to  be  generous,   and  fear  to  be  foolish. 

"Certainly,"  said  Walter,  soliloquizing,  "certainly  the  man 
is  a  rascal;  yet  he  was  evidently  sincere  in  his  emotion.  Cer- 
tainly he  was  one  of  the  men  who  robbed  me;  yet  if  so,  he 
was  also  the  one  who  interceded  for  my  life.  If  I  should  now 
have  given  strength  to  a  villain;  if  I  should  have  assisted 
him  to  an  outrage  against  myself!  What  more  probable  ? 
Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  if  his  story  be  true,  if  his  child  be 
dying,  and  if,  through  my  means,  he  obtain  a  last  interview 
with  her!     Well,  well,  let  me  hope  so!  " 

Here  he  was  joined  by  the  corporal,  who,  angry  as  he  was, 
judged  it  prudent  to  smother  his  rage  for  another  opportunity, 
and  by  favoring  his  master  with  his  company,  to  procure  him- 
self an  ally  immediately  at  hand,  should  his  suspicions  prove 
true.  But  for  once  his  knowledge  of  the  world  deceived 
him;  no  sign  of  living  creature  broke  the  loneliness  of  the 
way.  By  and  by  the  lights  of  the  town  gleamed  upon  them; 
and  on  reaching  the  inn,  Walter  found  his  horse  had  been 
already  sent  there,  and,  covered  with  dust  and  foam,  was 
submitting  itself  to  the  tutelary  hands  of  the  hostler. 

20 


306  EUGENE   ARAM. 


CHAPTER   X. 

Walter's  reflections. —  mine  host. —  a  gentle  character 

AND    A    green    old    AGE. THE    GARDEN,    AND    THAT     WHICH 

IT   TEACHETH. A   DIALOGUE  WHEREIN   NEW  HINTS   TOWARDS 

THE    WISHED-FOR     DISCOVERY    ARE     SUGGESTED. THE     CUR- 
ATE.    A     VISIT     TO     A    SPOT      OF     DEEP     INTEREST    TO    THE 

ADVENTURER. 

I  MADE  a  posy  while  the  day  ran  by ; 

Here  will  I  smell  my  remnant  out,  and  tie 

My  life  within  this  band.  —  George  Herbert. 

The  time  approaches 
That  will  with  due  precision  make  us  know 
What  — 

Macbeth. 

The  next  morning  Walter  rose  early;  and  descending  into 
the  court-yard  of  the  inn,  he  there  met  with  the  landlord, 
who  —  a  hoe  in  his  hand  —  was  just  about  to  enter  a  little  gate 
that  led  into  the  garden.      He  held  the  gate  open  for  Walter. 

"It  is  a  fine  morning,  sir:  would  you  like  to  look  into  the 
garden  ?  "  said  mine  host,  with  an  inviting  smile. 

Walter  accepted  the  offer,  and  found  himself  in  a  large  and 
well-stocked  garden,  laid  out  with  much  neatness  and  some 
taste.  The  landlord  halted  by  a  parterre  which  required  his 
attention,   and  Walter  walked  on  in  solitary  reflection. 

The  morning  was  serene  and  clear;  but  the  frost  mingled 
the  freshness  with  an  "eager  and  nipping  air,"  and  Walter 
unconsciously  quickened  his  step  as  he  passed  to  and  fro  the 
straight  walk  that  bisected  the  garden,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
ground  and  his  hat  over  his  brows. 

Now  then  he  had  reached  the  place  where  the  last  trace  of 
his  father  seemed  to  have  vanished, —  in  how  wayward  and 
strange  a  manner!  If  no  further  clew  could  be  here  discov- 
ered by  the  inquiry  he  purposed,  at  this  spot  would  terminate 


EUGENE  ARAM.  307 

his  researches  and  his  hopes.  But  the  young  heart  of  the 
traveller  was  buoyed  up  with  expectation.  Looking  back  to 
the  events  of  the  last  few  weeks,  he  thought  he  recognized  the 
finger  of  Destiny  guiding  him  from  step  to  step,  and  now 
resting  on  the  scene  to  which  it  had  brought  his  feet.  How 
singularly  complete  had  been  the  train  of  circumstance  which, 
linking  things  seemingly  most  trifling,  most  dissimilar,  had 
lengthened  into  one  continuous  chain  of  evidence,  —  the  trivial 
incident  that  led  him  to  the  saddler's  shop;  the  accident  that 
brought  the  whip  that  had  been  his  father's  to  his  eye ;  the 
account  from  Courtland,  which  had  conducted  him  to  this  re- 
mote part  of  the  country;  and  now  the  narrative  of  Elmore, 
leading  him  to  the  spot  at  which  all  inquiry  seemed  as  yet  to 
pause!  Had  he  been  led  hither  only  to  hear  repeated  that 
strange  tale  of  sudden  and  wanton  disappearance,  —  to  find  an 
abrupt  wall,  a  blank  and  impenetrable  barrier  to  a  course 
hitherto  so  continuously  guided  on  ?  Had  he  been  the  sport 
of  Fate,  and  not  its  instrument  ?  No ;  he  was  filled  with  a 
serious  and  profound  conviction  that  a  discovery,  which  he  of 
all  men  was  best  entitled  by  the  unalienable  claims  of  blood 
and  birth  to  achieve,  was  reserved  for  him,  and  that  this  grand 
dream  of  childhood  was  now  about  to  be  embodied  and  at- 
tained. He  could  not  but  be  sensible,  too,  that  as  he  had 
proceeded  on  his  high  enterprise,  his  character  had  acquired  a 
weight  and  a  thoughtful  seriousness  which  was  more  fitted  to 
the  nature  of  that  enterprise  than  akin  to  his  earlier  temper. 
This  consciousness  swelled  his  bosom  with  a  profound  and 
steady  hope.  When  Fate  selects  her  human  agents,  her  dark 
and  mysterious  spirit  is  at  work  within  them;  she  moulds 
their  hearts,  she  exalts  their  energies,  she  shapes  them  to  the 
part  she  has  allotted  them,  and  renders  the  mortal  instrument 
worthy  of  the  solemn  end. 

Thus  chewing  the  cud  of  his  involved  and  deep  reflections, 
the  young  adventurer  paused  at  last  opposite  his  host,  who  was 
still  bending  over  his  pleasant  task,  and  every  now  and  then, 
excited  by  the  exercise  and  the  fresh  morning  air,  breaking 
into  snatches  of  some  old  rustic  song.  The  contrast  in  mood 
between  himself  and  this  "Unvex'd  loiterer  by  the  world's 


308  EUGEXE   ARAM. 

green  ways,"  struck  forcibly  upon  him.  Mine  host,  too,  was 
one  whose  appearance  was  better  suited  to  his  occupation 
than  his  profession.  He  might  have  told  some  three  and 
sixty  years ;  but  it  was  a  comely  and  green  old  age,  his  cheek 
was  firm  and  ruddy,  not  with  nightly  cups,  but  the  fresh  wit- 
ness of  the  morning  breezes  it  was  wont  to  court;  his  frame 
was  robust,  not  corpulent;  and  his  long  gray  hair,  which  fell 
almost  to  his  shoulders,  his  clear  blue  eyes,  and  a  pleasant 
curve  in  a  mouth  characterized  by  habitual  good  humor,  com- 
pleted a  portrait  that  even  many  a  dull  observer  would  have 
paused  to  gaze  upon.  And,  indeed,  the  good  man  enjoyed  a 
certain  kind  of  reputation  for  his  comely  looks  and  cheerful 
manner.  His  picture  had  even  been  taken  by  a  young  artist 
in  the  neighborhood,  —  nay,  the  likeness  had  been  multiplied 
into  engravings,  somewhat  rude  and  somewhat  unfaithful, 
which  might  be  seen  occupying  no  uuconspicuous  nor  dusty 
corner  in  the  principal  print-shop  of  the  town.  Nor  was  mine 
host's  character  a  contradiction  to  his  looks.  He  had  seen 
enough  of  life  to  be  intelligent,  and  had  judged  it  rightly 
enough  to  be  kind.  He  had  passed  that  line  so  nicely  given 
to  man's  codes  in  those  admirable  pages  which  first  added 
delicacy  of  tact  to  the  strong  sense  of  English  composition. 
"We  have  just  religion  enough,"  it  is  said  somewhere  in  the 
"Spectator,"  "to  make  us  hate,  but  not  enough  to  make  us 
love,  one  another."  Our  good  landlord  —  peace  be  with  his 
ashes !  —  had  never  halted  at  this  limit.  The  country  inn- 
keeper might  have  furnished  Goldsmith  with  a  counterpart  to 
his  country  curate:  his  house  was  equally  hospitable  to  the 
poor;  his  heart  equally  tender,  in  a  nature  wiser  than  expe- 
rience, to  error,  and  equally  open,  in  its  warm  simplicity,  to 

distress.     Peace  be  with  thee,  !     Our  grandsire  was  thy 

patron,  yet  a  patron  thou  didst  not  want.  Merit  in  thy  ca- 
pacity is  seldom  bare  of  reward.  The  public  want  no  indi- 
cators to  a  house  like  thine.  And  who  requires  a  third  person 
to  tell  him  how  to  appreciate  the  value  of  good  nature  and 
good  cheer  ? 

As  Walter  stood  and  contemplated  the  old  man  bending  over 
the  sweet  fresh  earth  (and  then,  glancing  round,  saw  the  quiet 


EUGENE   ARAM.  309 

garden  stretching  away  on  either  side,  with  its  boundaries 
lost  among  the  thick  evergreen),  something  of  that  grateful 
and  moralizing  stillness  with  which  some  country  scene  gen- 
erally inspires  us  when  we  awake  to  its  consciousness  from 
the  troubled  dream  of  dark  and  unquiet  thought,  stole  over 
his  mind,  and  certain  old  lines  which  his  uncle,  who  loved 
the  soft  and  rustic  morality  that  pervades  the  ancient  race  of 
English  minstrels,  had  taught  him,  when  a  boy,  came  pleas- 
antly into  his  recollection ;  — 

"  With  all,  as  in  some  rare  limned  book,  we  see 
Here  painted  lectures  of  God's  sacred  will. 
The  daisy  teachetli  lowliness  of  mind  ; 
The  camomile,  we  should  be  patient  still  ; 
The  rue,  oui-  hate  of  vice's  poison  ill ; 
The  woodbine,  that  we  should  our  friendship  hold ; 
Our  hope  the  savory  in  the  bitterest  cold."  ^ 

The  old  man  stopped  from  his  work  as  the  musing  figure  of 
his  guest  darkened  the  prospect  before  him,  and  said, — 

"A  pleasant  time,  sir,  for  the  gardener!  " 

"Ay,  is  it  so  ?  You  must  miss  the  fruits  and  flowers  of 
summer." 

"  Well,  sir,  but  we  are  now  paying  back  the  garden  for  the 
good  things  it  has  given  us.  It  is  like  taking  care  of  a  friend 
in  old  age  who  has  been  kind  to  us  when  he  was  young." 

Walter  smiled  at  the  quaint  amiability  of  the  idea. 

" 'T  is  a  winning  thing,  sir,  a  garden!  It  brings  us  an  ob- 
ject every  day;  and  that 's  what  I  think  a  man  ought  to  have 
if  he  wishes  to  lead  a  happy  life." 

"  It  is  true, "  said  Walter ;  and  mine  host  was  encouraged 
to  continue  by  the  attention  and  affable  countenance  of  the 
stranger,   for  he  was  a  physiognomist  in  his  way. 

"  And  then,  sir,  we  have  no  disappointment  in  these  objects ; 
the  soil  is  not  ungrateful,  as  they  say  men  are,  —  though  I 
have  not  often  found  them  so,  by  the  by.  What  we  sow  we 
reap.  I  have  an  old  book,  sir,  lying  in  my  little  parlor,  all 
about  fishing,  and  full  of  so  many  pretty  sayings  about  a  coun- 
try life,  and  meditation,  and  so  forth,  that  it  does  one  as  much 
1  Henry  Peacham. 


310  EUGENE   ARAM. 

good  as  a  sermon  to  look  into  it.  But  to  my  mind,  all  those 
sayings  are  more  applicable  to  a  gardener's  life  than  a 
fisherman's." 

"It  is  a  less  cruel  life,  certainly,"  said  Walter. 

"Yes,  sir;  and  then  the  scenes  one  makes  one's  self,  the 
flowers  one  plants  with  one's  own  hand,  one  enjoys  more 
than  all  the  beauties  which  don't  owe  us  anything, —  at  least 
so  it  seems  to  me.  I  have  always  been  thankful  to  the  acci- 
dent that  made  me  take  to  gardening." 

"  And  what  was  that  ?  " 

'■  Why,  sir,  you  must  know  there  was  a  great  scholar,  though 
he  was  but  a  youth  then,  living  in  tliis  town  some  years  ago, 
and  he  was  very  curious  in  plants  and  flowers  and  such  like. 
I  have  heard  the  parson  say  he  knew  more  of  those  innocent 
matters  than  any  man  in  this  county.  At  that  time  I  was  not 
in  so  flourishing  a  way  of  business  as  I  am  at  present.  I  kept 
a  little  inn  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town;  and  having  formerly 

been  a  gamekeeper  of  my  Lord 's,  I  was  in  the  habit  of 

eking  out  my  little  profits  by  accompanying  gentlemen  in 
fishing  or  snipe-shooting.  So  one  day,  sir,  I  went  out  fishing 
with  a  strange  gentleman  from  London,  and  in  a  very  quiet, 
retired  spot,  some  miles  off,  he  stopped  and  plucked  some 
herbs  that  seemed  to  me  common  enough,  but  which  he  de- 
clared were  most  curious  and  rare  things,  and  he  carried  them 
carefully  away.  I  heard  afterwards  he  was  a  great  herbalist, 
I  think  they  call  it,  but  he  was  a  very  poor  fisher.  Well,  sir, 
I  thought  the  next  morning  of  Mr.  Aram,  our  great  scholar 
and  botanist,  and  fancied  it  would  please  him  to  know  of 
these  bits  of  grass;  so  I  went  and  called  upon  him,  and 
begged  leave  to  go  and  show  the  spot  to  him.  So  we  walked 
there;  and  certainly,  sir,  of  all  the  men  that  ever  I  saw,  I 
never  met  one  that  wound  round  your  heart  like  this  same 
Eugene  Aram.  He  was  then  exceedingly  poor,  but  he  never 
complained,  and  was  much  too  proud  for  any  one  to  dare  to 
ofi"er  him  relief.  He  lived  quite  alone,  and  usually  avoided 
every  one  in  his  walks;  but,  sir,  there  was  something  so  en- 
gaging and  patient  in  his  manner  and  his  voice  and  his  pale, 
mild  countenance,  which,  young  as  he  was  then,  for  he  was 


EUGENE   ARAM.  311 

not  a  year  or  two  above  twenty,  was  marked  with  sadness  and 
melancholy,  that  it  quite  went  to  your  heart  when  you  met 
him  or  spoke  to  him.  Well,  sir,  we  walked  to  the  place,  and 
very  much  delighted  he  seemed  with  the  green  things  I  showed 
him;  and  as  I  was  always  of  a  communicative  temper, — rather 
a  gossip,  sir,  my  neighbors  say, —  I  made  him  smile  now  and 
then  by  my  remarks.  He  seemed  pleased  with  me,  and  talked 
to  me  going  home  about  flowers  and  gardening  and  such  like; 
and  sure  it  was  better  than  a  book  to  hear  him.  And  after 
that,  when  we  came  across  one  another,  he  would  not  shun  me 
as  he  did  others,  but  let  me  stop  and  talk  to  him;  and  then  I 
asked  his  advice  about  a  wee  farm  I  thought  of  taking,  and  he 
told  me  many  curious  things  which,  sure  enough,  I  found  quite 
true,  and  brought  me  in  afterwards  a  deal  of  money.  But  we 
t.ilked  much  about  gardening,  for  I  loved  to  hear  him  talk  on 
those  matters;  and  so,  sir,  I  was  struck  by  all  he  said,  and 
could  not  rest  till  I  took  to  gardening  myself,  and  ever  since 
I  have  gone  on,  more  pleased  with  it  every  day  of  my  life. 
Indeed,  sir,  I  think  these  harmless  pursuits  make  a  man's 
heart  better  and  kinder  to  his  fellow-creatures ;  and  I  always 
take  more  pleasure  in  reading  the  Bible,  specially  the  New 
Testament,  after  having  spent  the  day  in  the  garden.  Ah, 
well!  I  should  like  to  know  what  has  become  of  that  poor 
gentleman." 

"I  can  relieve  your  honest  heart  about  him.     Mr.  Aram 

is  living  in ,  well  off  in  the  world,  and  universally  liked; 

though  he  still  keeps  to  his  old  habits  of  reserve." 

"Ay,  indeed,  sir!  I  have  not  heard  anything  that  pleased 
me  more  this  many  a  day." 

"Pray,"  said  Walter,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "do  you  re- 
member the  circumstance  of  a  Mr.  Clarke  appearing  in  this 
town,  and  leaving  it  in  a  very  abrupt  and  mysterious  manner?  " 

"  Do  I  mind  it,  sir  ?  Yes,  indeed.  It  made  a  great  noise 
in  Knaresborough ;  there  were  many  suspicions  of  foul  play 
about  it.  For  my  part,  I  too  had  my  thoughts,  —  but  that's 
neither  here  nor  there;  "  and  the  old  man  recommenced  weed- 
ing with  great  diligence. 

"My   friend,"  said  Walter,    mastering   his  emotion,   "you 


312  EUGENE   ARAM. 

would  serve  me  more  deeply  tlian  I  can  express  if  you  would 
give  me  any  information,  any  conjecture,  respecting  this  — 
this  Mr.  Clarke.  I  have  come  hither  solely  to  make  inquiry 
after  his  fate;  in  a  word,  he  is  —  or  was  —  a  near  relative  of 


mine! 


!  " 


The  old  man  looked  wistfully  in  Walter's  face.  "Indeed," 
said  he,  slowly,  "you  are  welcome,  sir,  to  all  I  know;  but 
that  IS  very  little,  or  nothing  rather.  But  will  you  turn  up 
this  walk,  sir, —  it 's  more  retired.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  one 
Richard  Houseman  ?  " 

"  Houseman  ?  Yes ;  he  knew  my  poor  —  I  mean  he  knew 
Clarke ;  he  said  Clarke  was  in  his  debt  when  he  left  the  town 
so  suddenly." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  mysteriously,  and  looked  round. 
"I  will  tell  you,"  said  he,  laying  his  hand  on  Walter's  arm, 
and  speaking  in  his  ear:  "I  would  not  accuse  any  one  wrong- 
fully, but  I  have  my  doubts  that  Houseman  murdered  him." 

"Great  God!"  murmured  Walter,  clinging  to  a  post  for 
support.  "Goon!  Heed  me  not,  heed  me  not;  for  mercy's 
sake  go  on." 

"Nay,  I  know  nothing  certain,  nothing  certain,  believe  me," 
said  the  old  man,  shocked  at  the  effect  his  words  had  pro- 
duced; "it  may  be  better  than  I  think  for,  and  my  reasons  are 
not  very  strong,  but  you  shall  hear  them.  Mr.  Clarke,  you 
know,  came  to  this  town  to  receive  a  legacy,  —  you  know  the 
particulars  ?  " 

Walter  impatiently  nodded  assent. 

"Well,  though  he  seemed  in  poor  health,  he  was  a  lively, 
careless  man,  who  liked  any  company  who  would  sit  and  tell 
stories  and  drink  o'  nights, —  not  a  silly  man  exactly,  but  a 
weak  one.  Now  of  all  the  idle  persons  of  this  town,  Richard 
Houseman  was  the  most  inclined  to  this  way  of  life.  He  had 
been  a  soldier;  had  wandered  a  good  deal  about  the  world; 
was  a  bold,  talking,  reckless  fellow,  of  a  character  thoroughly 
profligate,  and  there  were  many  stories  afloat  about  him,  though 
none  were  clearly  made  out,  — in  short,  he  was  suspected  of 
having  occasionally  taken  to  the  high  road;  and  a  stranger, 
who  stopped  once  at  my  little  inn,  assured  me  privately  that 


EUGENE  ARAM.  313 

though  he  could  not  positively  swear  to  his  person,  he  felt 
convinced  that  he  had  been  stopped  a  year  before  on  the  Lon- 
don road  by  Houseman.  Notwithstanding  all  this,  as  House- 
man had  some  respectable  connections  in  the  town  (among 
his  relations,  by  the  by,  was  Mr.  Aram),  as  he  was  a  thor- 
oughly boon  companion,  a  good  shot,  a  bold  rider,  excellent  at 
a  song,  and  very  cheerful  and  merry,  he  was  not  without  as 
much  company  as  he  pleased;  and  the  first  night  he  and  Mr. 
Clarke  came  together  they  grew  mighty  intimate, —  indeed  it 
seemed  as  if  they  had  met  before.  On  the  night  Mr.  Clarke 
disappeared,  I  had  been  on  an  excursion  with  some  gentlemen; 
and  in  consequence  of  the  snow,  which  had  been  heavy  during 
the  latter  part  of  the  day,  I  did  not  return  to  Knaresborough 
till  past  midnight.  In  walking  through  the  town,  I  perceived 
two  men  engaged  in  earnest  conversation :  one  of  them,  I  am 
sure,  was  Clarke ;  the  other  was  wrapped  up  in  a  great-coat, 
with  the  cape  over  his  face,  —  but  the  watchman  had  met  the 
same  man  alone  at  an  earlier  hour,  and,  putting  aside  the 
cape,  perceived  that  it  was  Houseman.  No  one  else  was  seen 
with  Clarke  after  that  hour." 

"But  was  not  Houseman  examined  ?" 

*'  Slightly,  and  deposed  that  he  had  been  spending  the  night 
with  Eugene  Aram;  that  on  leaving  Aram's  house  he  met 
Clarke,  and  wondering  that  he,  the  latter,  an  invalid,  should 
be  out  at  so  late  an  hour,  he  walked  some  way  with  him,  in 
order  to  learn  the  cause;  but  that  Clarke  seemed  confused, 
and  was  reserved  and  on  his  guard,  and  at  last  wished  him 
good-by  abruptly,  and  turned  away ;  that  he,  Houseman,  had 
no  doubt  he  left  the  town  that  night,  with  the  intention  of 
defrauding  his  creditors  and  making  off  with  some  jewels  he 
had  borrowed  from  Mr.  Elmore." 

•'But,  Aram, —  was  this  suspicious,  nay,  abandoned  charac- 
ter—  this  Houseman  —  intimate  with  Aram?" 

"  Not  at  all ;  but  being  distantly  related,  and  Houseman  be- 
ing a  familiar,  pushing  sort  of  a  fellow,  Aram  could  not, 
perhaps,  always  shake  him  off;  and  Aram  allowed  that  House- 
man had  spent  the  evening  with  him." 

"  And  no  suspicion  rested  on  Aram  ?  " 


S14  EUGENE  ARAM. 

The  host  turned  round  in  amazement.  "Heavens  above> 
no!     One  might  as  well  suspect  the  lamb  of  eating  the  wolf! " 

But  not  thus  thought  Walter  Lester;  the  wild  words  occa- 
sionally uttered  by  the  student,  his  lone  habits,  his  frequent 
starts  and  colloquy  with  self,  all  of  which  had,  even  from  the 
first,  it  has  been  seen,  excited  Walter's  suspicion  of  former 
guilt  that  had  murdered  the  mind's  wholesome  sleep,  now 
rushed  with  tenfold  force  upon  his  memory. 

"But  no  other  circumstance  transpired?  Is  this  your  whole 
ground  for  suspicion,  —  the  mere  circumstance  of  Houseman's 
being  last  seen  with  Clarke  ?  " 

"  Consider  also  the  dissolute  and  bold  character  of  Houseman. 
Clarke  evidently  had  his  jewels  and  money  with  him, —  they 
were  not  left  in  the  house.  What  a  temptation  to  one  who 
was  more  than  suspected  of  having  in  the  course  of  his  life 
taken  to  plunder!  Houseman  shortly  afterwards  left  the 
country.  He  has  never  returned  to  the  town  since,  though  his 
daughter  lives  here  with  his  wife's  mother,  and  has  occasion- 
ally gone  up  to  town  to  see  him." 

"And  Aram, —  he  also  left  Knaresborough  soon  after  this 
mysterious  event  ?  " 

"Yes;  an  old  aunt  at  York,  who  had  never  assisted  him 
during  her  life,  died  and  bequeathed  him  a  legacy  about  a 
month  afterwards.  On  receiving  it  he  naturally  went  to  Lon- 
don,—  the  best  place  for  such  clever  scholars." 

"Ha!  but  are  you  sure  that  the  aunt  died,  that  the  legacy 
was  left  ?  Might  not  this  be  a  tale  to  give  an  excuse  to  the 
spending  of  money  otherwise  acquired  ? " 

Mine  host  looked  almost  with  anger  on  Walter. 

"It  is  clear,"  said  he,  "you  know  nothing  of  Eugene  Aram, 
or  you  would  not  speak  thus.  But  I  can  satisfy  your  doubts 
on  this  head.  I  knew  the  old  lady  well,  and  my  wife  was  at 
York  when  she  died.  Besides,  every  one  here  knows  some- 
thing of  the  will,   for  it  was  rather  an  eccentric  one." 

Walter  paused  irresolutely.  "  Will  you  accompany  me, "  he 
asked,  "to  the  house  in  which  Mr.  Clarke  lodged, —  and,  in- 
deed, to  any  other  place  where  it  may  be  prudent  to  institute 
inquiry  ?  " 


EUGENE   ARAM.  315 

"Certainly,  sir,  with  the  biggest  pleasure,"  said  mine  host; 
"but  you  must  iirst  try  my  dame's  butter  and  eggs.  It  is  time 
to  breakfast." 

We  may  suppose  that  Walter's  simple  meal  was  soon  over; 
and  growing  impatient  and  restless  to  commence  his  inquiries, 
he  descended  from  his  solitary  apartment  to  the  little  back- 
room behind  the  bar,  in  Avhich  he  had,  on  the  night  before, 
seen  mine  host  and  his  better  half  at  supper.  It  was  a  snug, 
small,  wainscoted  room;  fishing-rods  were  neatly  arranged 
against  the  wall,  which  was  also  decorated  by  a  portrait  of  the 
landlord  himself,  two  old  Dutch  pictures  of  fruit  and  game,  a 
long,  quaint-fashioned  foAvling-piece,  and,  opposite  the  fire- 
place, a  noble  stag's  head  and  antlers.  On  the  window-seat 
lay  the  Isaak  Walton  to  which  the  old  man  had  referred;  the 
Family  Bible,  with  its  green-baize  cover  and  the  frequent 
marks  peeping  out  from  its  venerable  pages;  and,  close  nest- 
ling to  it,  recalling  that  beautiful  sentence,  "Suffer  the  little 
children  to  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not,"  several  of 
those  little  volumes  with  gay  bindings  and  marvellous  con- 
tents of  fay  and  giant  which  delight  the  hearth-spelled  urchin, 
and  which  were  "the  source  of  golden  hours"  to  the  old 
man's  grandchildren,  in  their  respite  from  "learning's  little 
tenements, "  — 

"Where  sits  the  dame,  disguised  in  look  profound, 
And  eyes  her  fairy  throng,  and  turns  her  wheel  around."  * 

Mine  host  was  still  employed  by  a  huge  brown  loaf  and 
some  baked  pike,  and  mine  hostess,  a  quiet  and  serene  old 
lady,  was  alternately  regaling  herself  and  a  large  brindled  cat 
from  a  plate  of  "toasten  cheer." 

While  the  old  man  was  hastily  concluding  his  repast,  a  lit- 
tle knock  at  the  door  was  heard,  and  presently  an  elderly 
gentleman  in  black  put  his  head  into  the  room,  and  perceiving 
the  stranger,  would  have  drawn  back;  but  both  landlady  and 
landlord,  bustling  up,  entreated  him  to  enter  by  the  appella- 
tion of  Mr.  Summers.  And  then,  as  the  gentleman  smilingly 
yielded  to  the  invitation,  the  landlady,  turning  to  Walter,  said, 
1  Shenstone's  Schoolmistress. 


316  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"  Our  clergyman,  sir ;  and  though  I  say  it  afore  his  face,  there 
is  not  a  man  who,  if  Christian  vartues  were  considered,  ought 
so  soon  to  be  a  bishop." 

"  Hush !  my  good  lady, "  said  Mr.  Summers,  laughing  as  he 
bowed  to  Walter.  "  You  see,  sir,  that  it  is  no  trifling  advan- 
tage to  a  Knaresborough  reputation  to  have  our  hostess's  good 
word.  But,  indeed,"  turning  to  the  landlady,  and  assuming 
a  grave  and  impressive  air,  "I  have  little  mind  for  jesting 
now.  You  know  poor  Jane  Houseman, —  a  mild,  quiet,  blue- 
eyed  creature, —  she  died  at  daybreak  this  morning!  Her 
father  had  come  from  London  expressly  to  see  her.  She  died 
in  his  arms,  and  I  hear  he  is  almost  in  a  state  of  frenzy." 

The  host  and  hostess  signified  their  commiseration.  "  Poor 
little  girl !  "  said  the  latter,  wiping  her  eyes,  "  hers  was  a  hard 
fate,  and  she  felt  it,  child  as  she  was.  Without  the  care  of  a 
mother — and  such  a  father!     Yet  he  was  fond  of  her." 

"My  reason  for  calling  on  you  was  this,"  renewed  the 
clergyman,  addressing  the  host:  "you  knew  Houseman  for- 
merly; me  he  always  shunned,  and,  I  fancy,  ridiculed.  He  is 
in  distress  now,  and  all  that  is  forgotten.  Will  you  seek  him, 
and  inquire  if  anything  in  my  power  can  afford  him  consola- 
tion ?  He  may  be  poor:  /can  pay  for  the  poor  child's  burial. 
I  loved  her:  she  was  the  best  girl  at  Mrs.  Summers'  school." 

"Certainly,  sir,  I  will  seek  him,"  said  the  landlord,  hesitat- 
ing; and  then,  drawing  the  clergyman  aside,  he  informed  him 
in  a  whisper  of  his  engagement  with  Walter,  and  with  the 
present  pursuit  and  meditated  inquiry  of  his  guest,  not  for- 
getting to  insinuate  his  suspicion  of  the  guilt  of  the  man 
whom  he  was  now  called  upon  to  compassionate. 

The  clergyman  mused  a  little;  and  then,  approaching  Wal- 
ter, offered  his  services  in  the  stead  of  the  publican  in  so  frank 
and  cordial  a  manner  that  Walter  at  once  accepted  them. 

"Let  us  come  now,  then,"  said  the  good  curate, —  for  he  was 
but  the  curate,  —  seeing  Walter's  impatience;  "and  first  we 
will  go  to  the  house  in  which  Clarke  lodged, —  I  know  it 
well." 

The  two  gentlemen  now  commenced  their  expedition.  Sum- 
mers was  no  contemptible  antiquary,  and  he  sought  to  beguile 


EUGENE   ARAM.  317 

the  nervous  impatience  of  his  companion  by  dilating  on  the 
attractions  of  the  ancient  and  memorable  town  to  which  his 
purpose  had  brought  him. 

"Remarkable,"  said  the  curate,  "alike  in  history  and  tra- 
dition. Look  yonder,"  pointing  above,  as  an  opening  in  the 
road  gave  to  view  the  frowning  and  beetled  ruins  of  the  shat- 
tered castle;  "you  would  be  at  some  loss  to  recognize  now  the 
truth  of  old  Leland's  description  of  that  once  stout  and  gallant 
bulwark  of  the  North,  when  he  'numbrid  11  or  12  towres  in 
the  walles  of  the  castel,  and  one  very  fayre  beside  in  the  sec- 
ond area. '  In  that  castle  the  four  knightly  murderers  of  the 
haughty  Becket  (the  Wolsey  of  his  age)  remained  for  a  whole 
year,  defying  the  weak  justice  of  the  times.  There,  too,  the 
unfortunate  Richard  the  Second  —  the  Stuart  of  the  Planta- 
genets  —  passed  some  portion  of  his  bitter  imprisonment.  And 
there,  after  the  battle  of  Marston  Moor,  waved  the  banners 
of  the  loyalists  against  the  soldiers  of  Lilburne.  It  was  made 
yet  more  touchingly  memorable  at  that  time,  as  you  may  have 
heard,  by  an  instance  of  filial  piety.  The  town  was  greatly 
straitened  for  want  of  provisions ;  a  youth,  whose  father  was 
in  the  garrison,  was  accustomed  nightly  to  get  into  the  deep 
dry  moat,  climb  up  the  glacis,  and  put  provisions  through  a 
hole,  where  the  father  stood  ready -to  receive  them.  He  was 
perceived  at  length;  the  soldiers  fired  on  him.  He  was  taken 
prisoner  and  sentenced  to  be  hanged  in  sight  of  the  besieged, 
in  order  to  strike  terror  into  those  who  might  be  similarly 
disposed  to  render  assistance  to  the  garrison.  Fortunately, 
however,  this  disgrace  was  spared  the  memory  of  Lilburne 
and  the  republican  arms.  With  great  difficulty  a  certain  lady 
obtained  his  respite;  and  after  the  conquest  of  the  place  and 
the  departure  of  the  troops,  the  adventurous  son  was  released." 

"A  fit  subject  for  your  local  poets,"  said  Walter,  whom 
stories  of  this  sort,  from  the  nature  of  his  own  enterprise, 
especially  affected. 

"Yes;  but  we  boast  but  few  minstrels  since  the  young 
Aram  left  us.  The  castle  then,  once  the  residence  of  John 
of  Gaunt,  was  dismantled  and  destroyed.  Many  of  the  houses 
•we  shall  pass  have  been  built  from  its  massive  ruins.     It  is 


318  EUGENE  ARAM. 

singular,  by  the  way,  that  it  was  twice  captured  by  men  of 
the  name  of  Lilburn  or  Lillburne, —  once  in  the  reign  of  Ed- 
ward II. ;  once  as  I  have  related.  On  looking  over  historical 
records,  we  are  surprised  to  find  how  often  certain  names 
have  been  fatal  to  certain  spots,  —  and  this  reminds  me,  by 
the  way,  that  we  boast  the  origin  of  the  English  sibyl,  the 
venerable  Mother  Shipton.  The  wild  rock,  at  whose  foot  she 
is  said  to  have  been  born,  is  worthy  of  the  tradition." 

"You  spoke  just  now,"  said  Walter,  who  had  not  very  pa- 
tiently suffered  the  curate  thus  to  ride  his  hobby,  "of  Eugene 
Aram:  you  knew  him  well?'' 

"Nay;  he  suffered  not  any  to  do  that!  He  was  a  remarka- 
ble youth.  I  have  noted  him  from  his  childhood  upward,  long 
before  he  came  to  Knaresborough,  till  on  leaving  this  place, 
fourteen  years  back,  I  lost  sight  of  him.  Strange,  musing, 
solitary  from  a  boy,  but  what  accomplishment  of  learning  he 
had  reached!  Never  did  I  see  one  whom  Nature  so  emphati- 
cally marked  to  be  great.  I  often  wonder  that  his  name  has 
not  long  ere  this  been  more  universally  noised  abroad,  what- 
ever he  attempted  was  stamped  with  such  signal  success.  I 
have  by  me  some  scattered  pieces  of  his  poetry  when  a  boy; 
they  were  given  me  by  his  poor  father,  long  since  dead,  and 
are  full  of  a  dim,  shadowy  anticipation  of  future  fame.  Per- 
haps yet,  before  he  dies, — he  is  still  young, —  the  presenti- 
ment will  be  realized.     You,  too,  know  him,  then  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  have  known  him.  Stay  —  dare  I  ask  you  a  ques- 
tion, a  fearful  question  ?  Did  suspicion  ever,  in  your  mind, 
in  the  mind  of  any  one,  rest  on  Aram  as  concerned  in  the 
mysterious  disappearance  of  my  —  of  Clarke  ?  His  acquaint- 
ance with  Houseman  who  was  suspected;  Houseman's  visit  to 
Aram  that  night;  his  previous  poverty, —  so  extreme,  if  I  hear 
rightly;  his  after  riches, — though  they  perhaps  7nay  be  satis- 
factorily accounted  for;  his  leaving  this  town  so  shortly  after 
the  disappearance  I  refer  to:  these  alone  might  not  create 
suspicion  in  me ;  but  I  have  seen  the  man  in  moments  of  rev- 
ery  and  abstraction,  I  have  listened  to  strange  and  broken 
words,  I  have  noted  a  sudden,  keen,  and  angry  susceptibility 
to  any  unmeant  appeal  to  a  less  peaceful  or  less  innocent  re- 


EUGENE  ARAM.  319 

membrance.  And  there  seems  to  me  inexplicably  to  hang 
over  his  heart  some  gloomy  recollection,  which  I  cannot  di- 
vest myself  from  imagining  to  be  that  of  guilt." 

Walter  spoke  quickly,  and  in  great  though  half-suppressed 
excitement,  the  more  kindled  from  observing  that  as  he  spoke, 
Summers  changed  countenance,  and  listened  as  with  painful 
and  uneasy  attention. 

"  I  will  tell  you, "  said  the  curate,  after  a  short  pause  (lower- 
ing his  voice), —  "I  will  tell  you.  Aram  did  undergo  exami- 
nation,—  I  was  present  at  it;  but  from  his  character,  and  the 
respect  universally  felt  for  him,  the  examination  was  close 
and  secret.  He  was  not,  mark  me,  suspected  of  the  murder 
of  the  unfortunate  Clarke,  nor  was  any  suspicion  of  murder 
generally  entertained  until  all  means  of  discovering  Clarke 
were  found  wholly  unavailing,  but  of  sharing  with  Houseman 
some  part  of  the  jewels  with  which  Clarke  was  known  to  have 
left  the  toAvn.  This  suspicion  of  robbery  could  not,  however, 
be  brought  home  even  to  Houseman,  and  Aram  was  satisfac- 
torily acquitted  from  the  imputation.  But  in  the  minds  of 
some  present  at  that  examination  a  doubt  lingered ;  and  this 
doubt  certainly  deeply  wounded  a  man  so  proud  and  suscep- 
tible. This,  I  believe,  was  the  real  reason  of  his  quitting 
Knaresborough  almost  immediately  after  that  examination. 
And  some  of  us  who  felt  for  him,  and  were  convinced  of  his 
innocence,  persuaded  the  others  to  hush  up  the  circumstance 
of  his  examination;  nor  has  it  generally  transpired,  even  to 
this  day,  when  the  whole  business  is  wellnigh  forgot.  But 
as  to  his  subsequent  improvement  in  circumstances,  there  is 
no  doubt  of  his  aunt's  having  left  him  a  legacy  sufficient  to 
account  for  it." 

Walter  bowed  his  head,  and  felt  his  suspicions  waver,  when 
the  curate  renewed:  — 

"Yet  it  is  but  fair  to  tell  you,  who  seem  so  deeply  inter- 
ested in  the  fate  of  Clarke,  that  since  that  period  rumors  have 
reached  my  ear  that  the  woman  at  whose  house  Aram  lodged, 
has  from  time  to  time  dropped  words  that  require  explana- 
tion,—  hints  that  she  could  tell  a  tale;  that  she  knows  more 
than  men  will   readily  believe;   nay,    once  she   is  even  re- 


320  EUGENE   ARAM. 

ported  to  have  said  that  the  life  of  Eugene  Aram  was  in 
her  power," 

"Father  of  mercy!  and  did  inquiry  sleep  on  words  so  call- 
ing for  its  liveliest  examination  ?  " 

"Not  wholly.  When  the  words  were  reported  to  me,  I 
went  to  the  house,  but  found  the  woman,  whose  habits  and 
character  are  low  and  worthless,  was  abrupt  and  insolent  in 
her  manner ;  and  after  in  vain  endeavoring  to  call  forth  some 
explanation  of  the  words  she  was  said  to  have  uttered,  I  left 
the  house  fully  persuaded  that  she  had  only  given  vent  to  a 
meaningless  boast,  and  that  the  idle  words  of  a  disorderly 
gossip  could  not  be  taken  as  evidence  against  a  man  of  the 
blameless  character  and  austere  habits  of  Aram,  Since,  how- 
ever, you  have  now  re-awakened  investigation,  we  will  visit 
her  before  you  leave  the  town;  and  it  may  be  as  well,  too, 
that  Houseman  should  undergo  a  further  investigation  before 
we  suffer  him  to  depart." 

"  I  thank  you,  I  thank  you !  I  will  not  let  slip  one  thread 
of  this  dark  clew !  " 

"And  now,"  said  the  curate,  pointing  to  a  decent  house, 
"we  have  reached  the  lodging  Clarke  occupied  in  the  town." 

An  old  man  of  respectable  appearance  opened  the  door,  and 
welcomed  the  curate  and  his  companion  with  an  air  of  cordial 
respect  which  attested  the  well-deserved  popularity  of  the 
former. 

"  We  have  come, "  said  the  curate,  "  to  ask  you  some  ques- 
tions respecting  Daniel  Clarke,  whom  you  remember  as  your 
lodger.  This  gentleman  is  a  relation  of  his,  and  interested 
deeply  in  his  fate." 

"What,  sir!"  quoth  the  old  man,  "and  have  you,  his  rela- 
tion, never  heard  of  Mr.  Clarke  since  he  left  the  town  ? 
Strange!  This  room,  this  very  room,  was  the  one  Mr.  Clarke 
occupied;  and  next  to  this,  here  [opening  a  door]  was  his 
bed-chamber !  " 

It  was  not  without  powerful  emotion  that  Walter  found 
himself  thus  within  the  apartment  of  his  lost  father.  What 
a  painful,  what  a  gloomy,  yet  sacred  interest  everything 
around   instantly   assumed!      The   old-fashioned   and   heavy 


EUGENE   ARAM.  321 

chairs ;  the  brown  wainscot  walls ;  the  little  cupboard  recessed 
as  it  were  to  the  right  of  the  fireplace,  and  piled  with  morsels 
of  Indian  china  and  long  taper  wine-glasses;  the  small  win- 
dow-panes set  deep  in  the  wall,  giving  a  dim  view  of  a  bleak 
and  melancholy  looking  garden  in  the  rear ;  yea,  the  very  floor 
he  trod,  the  very  table  on  which  he  leaned,  the  very  hearth, 
dull  and  fireless  as  it  was,  opposite  his  gaze, —  all  took  a  fa- 
miliar meaning  in  his  eye,  and  breathed  a  household  voice  into 
his  ear.  And  when  he  entered  the  inner  room,  how,  even  to 
suffocation,  were  those  strange,  half-sad,  yet  not  all  bitter 
emotions  increased!  There  was  the  bed  on  which  his  father 
had  rested  on  the  night  before  —  what  ?  Perhaps  his  murder ! 
The  bed,  probably  a  relic  from  the  castle  when  its  antique 
furniture  was  set  up  to  public  sale,  was  hung  with  faded  tap- 
estry, and  above  its  dark  and  polished  summit  were  hearse - 
like  and  heavy  trappings.  Old  commodes  of  rudely  carved 
oak,  a  discolored  glass  in  a  Japan  frame,  a  ponderous  arm- 
chair of  Elizabethan  fashion,  and  covered  with  the  same  tap- 
estry as  the  bed,  altogether  gave  that  uneasy  and  sepulchral 
impression  to  the  mind  so  commonly  produced  by  the  relics 
of  a  mouldering  and  forgotten  antiquity. 

"It  looks  cheerless,  sir,"  said  the  owner;  "but  then  we 
have  not  had  any  regular  lodger  for  years, —  it  is  just  the 
same  as  when  Mr.  Clarke  lived  here.  But  bless  you,  sir,  he 
made  the  dull  rooms  look  gay  enough.  He  was  a  blithesome 
gentleman.  He  and  his  friends,  Mr.  Houseman  especially, 
used  to  make  the  walls  ring  again  when  they  were  over  their 
cups ! " 

"It  might  have  been  better  for  Mr.  Clarke,"  said  the  curate, 
"had  he  chosen  his  comrades  with  more  discretion.  House- 
man was  not  a  creditable,  perhaps  not  a  safe  companion." 

"That  was  no  business  of  mine  then,"  quoth  the  lodging- 
letter;  "but  it  might  be  now,  since  I  have  been  a  married 
man ! " 

The  curate  smiled.  "Perhaps  you,  Mr.  Moor,  bore  a  part 
in  those  revels?" 

"Why,  indeed,  Mr.  Clarke  would  occasionally  make  me 
take  a  glass  or  so,   sir." 

21 


322  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"  And  you  must  then  have  heard  the  conversations  that  took 
place  between  Houseman  and  him.  Did  Mr.  Clarke  ever,  in 
those  conversations,  intimate  an  intention  of  leaving  the  town 
soon  ?     And  where,  if  so,  did  he  talk  of  going  ?  " 

"Oh!  first  to  London.  I  have  often  heard  him  talk  of  go- 
ing to  London,  and  then  taking  a  trip  to  see  some  relations  of 
his  in  a  distant  part  of  the  country.  I  remember  his  ca- 
ressing a  little  boy  of  my  brother's, —  you  know  Jack,  sir; 
not  a  little  boy  now,  almost  as  tall  as  this  gentleman.  'Ah! ' 
said  he,  with  a  sort  of  sigh,  'ah!  I  have  a  boy  at  home  about 
this  age:  when  shall  I  see  him  again  ?  '  " 

"  When  indeed !  "  thought  Walter,  turning  away  his  face  at 
this  anecdote,  to  him  so  naturally  affecting. 

"  And  the  night  that  Clarke  left  you,  were  you  aware  of  his 
absence  ? " 

"No,  he  went  to  his  room  at  his  usual  hour,  which  was  late; 
and  the  next  morning  I  found  his  bed  had  not  been  slept  in, 
and  he  was  gone, —  gone  with  all  his  jewels,  money,  and  val- 
uables ;  heavy  luggage  he  had  none.  He  was  a  cunning  gen- 
tleman; he  never  loved  paying  a  bill.  He  was  greatly  in 
debt  in  different  parts  of  the  town,  though  he  had  not  been 
here   long.     He  ordered   everything  and  paid  for   nothing." 

Walter  groaned.  It  was  his  father's  character  exactly: 
partly  it  might  be  from  dishonest  principles  superadded  to 
the  earlier  feelings  of  his  nature;  but  partly  also  from  that 
temperament,  at  once  careless  and  procrastinating,  which,  more 
often  than  vice,  loses  men  the  advantage  of  reputation. 

"Then  in  your  own  mind,  and  from  your  knowledge  of 
him,"  renewed  the  curate,  "you  would  suppose  that  Clarke's 
disappearance  was  intentional, —  that  though  nothing  has  since 
been  heard  of  him,  none  of  the  blacker  rumors  afloat  were 
well-founded  ?  " 

"I  confess,  sir,  begging  this  gentleman's  pardon,  who  you 
say  is  a  relation,  I  confess  /see  no  reason  to  think  otherwise." 

"Was  Mr.  Aram  —  Eugene  Aram  —  ever  a  guest  of  Clarke? 
Did  you  ever  see  them  together  ?  " 

"Never  at  this  house.  I  fancy  Houseman  once  presented 
Mr.  Aram  to  Clarke,   and  that  they  may  have  met  and  con- 


EUGENE   ARAM.  323 

versed  some  two  or  three  times, — not  more,  I  believe;  they 
were  scarcely  congenial  spirits,   sir." 

Walter,  having  now  recovered  his  self-possession,  entered 
into  the  conversation,  and  endeavored,  by  as  minute  an  exam- 
ination as  his  ingenuity  could  suggest,  to  obtain  some  addi- 
tional light  upon  the  mysterious  subject  so  deeply  at  his  heart. 
Nothing,  however,  of  any  effectual  import  was  obtained  from 
the  good  man  of  the  house.  He  had  evidently  persuaded  him- 
self that  Clarke's  disappearance  was  easily  accounted  for,  and 
would  scarcely  lend  attention  to  any  other  suggestion  than 
that  of  Clarke's  dishonesty.  Nor  did  his  recollection  of  the 
meetings  between  Houseman  and  Clarke  furnish  him  with 
anything  worthy  of  narration.  With  a  spirit  somewhat  damped 
and  disappointed,  Walter,  accompanied  by  the  curate,  recom- 
menced his  expedition. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

GRIEF   IN   A    RUFFIAN. —  THE   CHAMBER   OF   EARLY    DEATH. A 

HOMELY    YET     MOMENTOUS     CONFESSION. THE    EARTh's     SE- 
CRETS.  THE    CAVERN. THE   ACCUSATION. 

All  is  not  well; 
I  doubt  some  foul  play. 

Foul  deeds  will  rise, 
Though  all  the  earth  o'erwhelra  them,  to  men's  eyes.  —  Hamlet. 

As  they  passed  through  the  street,  they  perceived  three  or 
four  persons  standing  round  the  open  door  of  a  house  of  ordi- 
nary description,  the  windows  of  which  were  partially  closed. 

"It  is  the  house,"  said  the  curate,  "in  which  Houseman's 
daughter  died, —  poor,  poor  child!  Yet  why  mourn  for  the 
young  ?  Better  that  the  light  cloud  should  fade  away  into 
heaven  with  the  morning  breath,  than  travel  through  the 
weary  day  to  gather  in  darkness  and  end  in  storm." 


324  EUGENE    ARAM. 

"  Ah,  sir ! "  said  an  old  man,  leaning  on  his  stick  and  lift- 
ing his  hat,  in  obeisance  to  the  curate,  "the  father  is  within, 
and  takes  on  bitterly.  He  drives  them  all  away  from  the 
room,  and  sits  moaning  by  the  bedside,  as  if  he  was  a  going 
out  of  his  mind.    Won't  your  reverence  go  in  to  him  a  bit  ?  " 

The  curate  looked  at  Walter  inquiringly.  "Perhaps,"  said 
the  latter,  "you  had  better  go  in:  I  will  wait  without." 

While  the  curate  hesitated,  they  heard  a  voice  in  the  pas- 
sage; and  presently  Houseman  was  seen  at  the  far  end,  driv- 
ing some  women  before  him  with  vehement  gesticulations. 

"  I  tell  you,  ye  hell-hags,"  shrieked  his  harsh  and  now  strain- 
ing voice,  "that  ye  suffered  her  to  die!  Why  did  ye  not  send 
to  London  for  physicians  ?     Am  I  not  rich  enough  to  buy  my 

child's  life  at  any  price  ?     By  the  living ,  I  would  have 

turned  your  very  bodies  into  gold  to  have  saved  her!  But 
she's  dead!  and  I —  Out  of  my  sight;  out  of  my  way!" 
And  with  his  hands  clenched,  his  brows  knit,  and  his  head 
uncovered.  Houseman  sallied  forth  from  the  door,  and  Walter 
recognized  the  traveller  of  the  preceding  night.  He  stopped 
abruptly  as  he  saw  the  little  knot  without,  and  scowled  round 
at  each  of  them  with  a  malignant  and  ferocious  aspect.  "  Very 
well,  it's  very  well,  neighbors!"  said  he  at  length,  with  a 
fierce  laugh;  "this  is  kind!  You  have  come  to  welcome  Rich- 
ard Houseman  home,  have  ye  ?  Good,  good !  Not  to  gloat  at 
his  distress?  Lord,  no!  Ye  have  no  idle  curiosity,  no  pry- 
ing, searching,  gossiping  devil  within  ye  that  makes  ye  love 
to  flock  and  gape  and  chatter  when  poor  men  suffer !  This  is 
all  pure  compassion;  and  Houseman,  the  good,  gentle,  peace- 
ful, honest  Houseman,  you  feel  for  hhn, —  I  know  you  do! 
Hark  ye,  begone!  Away,  march,  tramp,  or —  Ha,  ha!  there 
they  go,  there  they  go !  "  laughing  wildly  again  as  the  fright- 
ened neighbors  shrank  from  the  spot,  leaving  only  Walter  and 
the  clergyman  with  the  childless  man. 

"  Be  comforted.  Houseman!"  said  Summers,  soothingly;  "it 
is  a  dreadful  affliction  that  you  have  sustained.  I  knew  your 
daughter  well :  you  may  have  heard  her  speak  of  me.  Let  us 
in,  and  try  what  heavenly  comfort  there  is  in  prayer." 

"Prayer!  pooh!     I  am  Richard  Houseman!  " 


EUGENE   ARAM.  325 

"Lives  there  one  man  for  whom  prayer  is  unavailing  ?" 

"Out,  canter,  out!  My  pretty  Jane!  And  she  laid  her 
head  on  my  bosom,  and  looked  up  in  my  face,  and  so  —  died!  " 

"Come,"  said  the  curate,  placing  his  hand  on  Houseman's 
arm,   "come." 

Before  he  could  proceed.  Houseman,  who  was  muttering  to 
himself,  shook  him  off  roughly,  and  hurried  away  up  the 
street;  but  after  he  had  gone  a  few  paces,  he  turned  back,  and 
approaching  the  curate,  said,  in  a  more  collected  tone:  "1 
pray  you,  sir,  since  you  are  a  clergyman  (I  recollect  your  face, 
and  1  recollect  Jane  said  you  had  been  good  to  her), —  I  pray 
you  go  and  say  a  few  words  over  her.  But  stay, —  don't  bring 
in  my  name;  you  understand.  I  don't  wish  God  to  recollect 
that  there  lives  such  a  man  as  he  who  now  addresses  you. 
Halloo!  [shouting  to  the  women]  my  hat,  and  stick  too.  Fal 
lal  la!  fal  la! — why  should  these  things  make  us  play  the 
madman  ?  It  is  a  fine  day,  sir;  we  shall  have  a  late  winter. 
Curse  the  b ,  how  long  she  is !  Yet  the  hat  was  left  be- 
low. But  when  a  death  is  in  the  house,  sir,  it  throws  things 
into  confusion :  don't  you  find  it  so  ?  " 

Here  one  of  the  women,  pale,  trembling,  and  tearful,  brought 
the  ruffian  his  hat;  and  placing  it  deliberately  on  his  head, 
and  bowing  with  a  dreadful  and  convulsive  attempt  to  smile, 
he  walked  slowly  away  and  disappeared. 

"  What  strange  mummers  grief  makes ! "  said  the  curate. 
"  It  is  an  appalling  spectacle  when  it  thus  wrings  out  feeling 
from  a  man  of  that  mould!  But  pardon  me,  my  young  friend; 
let  me  tarry  here  for  a  moment." 

"I  will  enter  the  house  with  you,"  said  Walter.  And  the 
two  men  walked  in,  and  in  a  few  moments  they  stood  within 
the  chamber  of  death. 

The  face  of  the  deceased  had  not  yet  suffered  the  last  wither- 
ing change.  Her  young  countenance  was  hushed  and  serene, 
and  but  for  the  fixedness  of  the  smile,  you  might  have  thought 
the  lips  moved.  So  delicate,  fair,  and  gentle  were  the  fea- 
tures that  it  was  scarcely  possible  to  believe  such  a  scion  could 
spring  from  such  a  stock;  and  it  seemed  no  longer  wonderful 
that  a  thing  so  young,  so  innocent,  so  lovely,  and  so  early 


326  EUGENE  ARAJM. 

blighted  should  have  touched  that  reckless  and  dark  nature 
which  rejected  all  other  invasion  of  the  softer  emotions.  The 
curate  wiped  his  eyes,  and  kneeling  down  prayed,  if  not  for 
the  dead  (who,  as  our  Church  teaches,  are  beyond  human  in- 
tercession), perhaps  for  the  father  she  had  left  on  earth, — 
more  to  be  pitied  of  the  two!  Nor  to  Walter  was  the  scene 
without  something  more  impressive  and  thrilling  than  its 
mere  pathos  alone.  He,  now  standing  beside  the  corpse  of 
Houseman's  child,  was  son  to  the  man  of  whose  murder  House- 
man had  been  suspected.  The  childless  and  the  fatherless, 
—  might  there  be  no  retribution  here  ? 

When  the  curate's  prayer  was  over,  and  he  and  Walter 
escaped  from  the  incoherent  blessings  and  complaints  of  the 
women  of  the  house,  they,  with  difficulty  resisting  the  im- 
pression the  scene  had  left  upon  their  minds,  once  more  re- 
sumed their  errand. 

"This  is  no  time,"  said  Walter,  musingly,  "for  an  exami- 
nation of  Houseman;    yet  it  must  not  be  forgotten." 

The  curate  did  not  reply  for  some  moments ;  and  then,  as  an 
answer  to  the  remark,  observed  that  the  conversation  they 
anticipated  with  Aram's  former  hostess  might  throw  some 
light  on  their  researches.  They  now  proceeded  to  another 
part  of  the  town,  and  arrived  at  a  lonely  and  desolate-looking 
house,  which  seemed  to  wear  in  its  very  appearance  some- 
thing strange,  sad,  and  ominous.  Some  houses  have  an  ex- 
pression, as  it  were,  in  their  outward  aspect  that  sinks 
unaccountably  into  the  heart,  —  a  dim,  oppressive  eloquence 
which  dispirits  and  affects.  You  say  some  story  must  be 
attached  to  those  walls ;  some  legendary  interest,  of  a  darker 
nature,  ought  to  be  associated  with  the  mute  stone  and  mortar; 
you  feel  a  mingled  awe  and  curiosity  creep  over  you  as  you 
gaze.  Such  was  the  description  of  the  house  that  the  young 
adventurer  now  surveyed.  It  was  of  antique  architecture, 
not  uncommon  in  old  towns;  gable  ends  rose  from  the  roof; 
dull,  small,  latticed  panes  were  sunk  deep  in  the  gray,  dis- 
colored wall;  the  pale,  in  part,  was  broken  and  jagged;  and 
rank  weeds  sprang  up  in  the  neglected  garden,  through  which 
they  walked  towards  the  povoh.      The  door  was  open;  they 


EUGENE   ARAM.  327 

entered,  and  found  an  old  woman  of  coarse  appearance  sitting 
by  the  fireside,  and  gazing  on  space  with  that  vacant  stare 
which  so  often  cliaracterizes  the  repose  and  relaxation  of  the 
uneducated  poor.  Walter  felt  an  involuntary  thrill  of  dis- 
like come  over  him  as  he  looked  at  the  solitary  inmate  of  the 
solitary  house. 

"Hey  day,  sir!"  said  she,  in  a  grating  voice,  "and  what 
now?  Oh!  Mr.  Summers,  is  it  you?  You're  welcome,  sir! 
I  wishes  I  covild  offer  you  a  glass  of  summut,  but  the  bottle  's 
dry  —  he !  he !  "  pointing,  with  a  revolting  grin,  to  an  empty 
bottle  that  stood  on  a  niche  within  the  hearth.  "  I  don't  know 
how  it  is,  sir,  but  I  never  wants  to  eat;  but  ah!  't  is  the  liquor 
that  does  un  good !  " 

"  You  have  lived  a  long  time  in  this  house  ? "  said  the 
curate. 

"A  long  time, —  some  thirty  years  an'  more." 

"  You  remember  your  lodger,  Mr.  Aram  ?  " 

"A  —  well  —  yes !  " 

"  An  excellent  man  —  " 

"Humph." 

"  A  most  admirable  man !  " 

"A-humph!  he!  —  humph!  that 's  neither  here  nor  there." 

"Why,  you  don't  seem  to  think  as  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
does  with  regard  to  him  ?  " 

"I  knows  what  I  knows." 

"Ah!  by  the  by,  you  have  some  cock-and-a-bull  story  about 
him,  I  fancy,  but  you  never  could  explain  yourself, —  it  is 
merely  for  the  love  of  seeming  wise  that  you  invented  it,  eh, 
Goody?" 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head,  and  crossing  her  hands  on 
her  knee,  replied  with  peculiar  emphasis,  but  in  a  very  low 
and  whispered  voice,   "  I  could  hang  him ! " 

"Pooh!" 

"Tell  you  I  could!" 

"Well,  let 's  have  the  story  then!  " 

"No,  no!  I  have  not  told  it  to  ne'er  a  one  yet,  and  I  won't 
for  nothing.  What  will  you  give  me  ?  Make  it  worth  my 
while." 


328  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"  Tell  us  all,  honestly,  fairly,  and  fully,  and  you  shall  have 
five  golden  guineas.     There,  Goody." 

Roused  by  this  promise,  the  dame  looked  up  with  more  of 
energy  than  she  had  yet  shown,  and  muttered  to  herself,  rock- 
ing her  chair  to  and  fro:  "Aha!  why  not?  No  fear  now, — 
both  gone;  can't  now  murder  the  poor  old  cretur,  as  the 
wretch  once  threatened.  Five  golden  guineas, —  five,  did  you 
say,  sir,  five  ?" 

"  Ah !  and  perhaps  our  bounty  may  not  stop  there, "  said  the 
curate. 

Still  the  old  woman  hesitated,  and  still  she  muttered  to 
herself;  but  after  some  further  prelude,  and  some  further  en- 
ticement from  the  curate,  the  which  we  spare  our  reader,  she 
came  at  length  to  the  following  narration:  — 

"  It  was  on  the  7th  of  February,  in  the  year  '44,  —  yes,  '44, 
about  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  for  I  was  a-washing  in  the 
kitchen, —  when  Mr.  Aram  called  to  me  an'  desired  of  me  to 
make  a  fire  upstairs,  which  I  did;  he  then  walked  out.  Some 
hours  afterwards,  it  might  be  two  in  the  morning,  I  was  lying 
awake,  for  I  was  mighty  bad  with  the  toothache,  Avhen  I  heard 
a  noise  below,  and  two  or  three  voices.  On  this  I  was  greatly 
afeard,  and  got  out  o'  bed,  and  opening  the  door,  I  saw  Mr. 
Houseman  and  Mr.  Clarke  coming  upstairs  to  Mr.  Aram's 
room,  and  Mr.  Aram  followed  them.  They  shut  the  door, 
and  stayed  there,  it  might  be  an  hour.  Well,  I  could  not 
a  think  what  could  make  so  shy  an'  resarved  a  gentleman  as 
Mr.  Aram  admit  these  'ere  wild  madcaps  like  at  that  hour; 
an'  I  lay  awake  a  thinking  an'  a  thinking,  till  I  heard  the 
door  open  agin,  an'  I  went  to  listen  at  the  keyhole,  an'  Mr. 
Clarke  said:  'It  will  soon  be  morning,  and  we  must  get  off.' 
They  then  all  three  left  the  house.  But  I  could  not  sleep, 
an'  I  got  up  afore  five  o'clock ;  and  about  that  hour  Mr.  Aram 
an'  Mr,  Houseman  returned,  and  they  both  glowered  at  me  as  if 
they  did  not  like  to  find  me  a  stirring;  an'  Mr,  Aram  went 
into  his  room,  and  Houseman  turned  and  frowned  at  me  as 
black  as  night.  Lord  have  mercy  on  me,  I  see  him  now! 
An'  I  was  sadly  feared,  an'  I  listened  at  the  keyhole,  an'  I 
heard  Houseman  say:  *If  the  woman  comes  in,  she'll  tell,' 


EUGENE  ARAM.  329 

*  What  can  she  tell  ?  '  said  Mr.  Aram;  'poor  simple  thing,  she 
knows  nothing.'  With  that,  Houseman  said,  says  he:  'If 
she  tells  that  I  am  here,  it  will  be  enough;  but  however 
[with  a  shocking  oath],  we  '11  take  an  opportunity  to  shoot 
her.' 

"On  that  I  was  so  frighted  that  I  went  away  back  to  my 
own  room,  and  did  not  stir  till  they  had  gone  out,  and  then  —  " 

"  What  time  was  that  ?  " 

"About  seven  o'clock.  Well —  You  put  me  out!  where 
was  I  ?  Well,  I  went  into  Mr.  Aram's,  an'  I  seed  they  had 
been  burning  a  fire,  an'  that  all  the  ashes  were  taken  out  o' 
the  grate;  so  I  went  an'  looked  at  the  rubbish  behind  the 
house,  and  there  sure  enough  I  seed  the  ashes,  and  among  'em 
several  bits  o'  cloth  and  linen  which  seemed  to  belong  to 
wearing  apparel;  and  there,  too,  was  a  handkerchief  which  I 
had  obsarved  Houseman  wear  (for  it  was  a  very  curious  hand- 
kerchief, all  spotted)  many  's  the  time,  and  there  was  blood 
on  it,  'bout  the  size  of  a  shilling.  An'  afterwards  I  seed 
Houseman,  an'  I  showed  him  the  handkerchief;  and  I  said 
to  him,  'What  has  come  of  Clarke  ?'  An'  he  frowned,  and, 
looking  at  me,  said,  'Hark  ye,  I  know  not  what  you  mean; 
but  as  sure  as  the  devil  keeps  watch  for  souls,  I  will  shoot 
you  through  the  head  if  you  ever  let  that  d — d  tongue  of  yours 
let  slip  a  single  word  about  Clarke  or  me  or  Mr.  Aram, —  so 
look  to  yourself!' 

"An'  I  was  all  scared,  and  trimbled  from  limb  to  limb;  an' 
for  two  whole  yearn  afterwards  (long  arter  Aram  and  House- 
man were  both  gone  (I  never  could  so  much  as  open  my  lips 
on  the  matter ;  and  afore  he  went,  Mr.  Aram  would  sometimes 
look  at  me,  not  sternly-like,  as  the  villain  Houseman,  but  as 
if  he  would  read  to  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  Oh !  I  was  as 
if  you  had  taken  a  mountain  off  o'  me  when  he  an'  Houseman 
left  the  town;  for  sure  as  the  sun  shines  I  believes,  from 
what  I  have  now  said,  that  they  two  murdered  Clarke  on  that 
same  February  night.  An'  now,  Mr.  Summers,  I  feels  more 
easy  than  I  has  felt  for  many  a  long  day;  an'  if  I  have  not 
told  it  afore,  it  is  because  I  thought  of  Houseman's  frown  and 
his  horrid  words;    but  summut  of  it  would  ooze  out  of  my 


330  EUGENE   ARAM. 

tongue  now  an'  then,  for  it 's  a  hard  thing,  sir,  to  know  a  se- 
cret o'  that  sort  and  be  quiet  and  still  about  it;  and,  indeed, 
I  was  not  the  same  cretur  when  1  knew  it  as  I  was  afore,  for 
it  made  me  take  to  anything  rather  than  thinking;  and  that 's 
the  reason,  sir,  I  lost  the  good  crackter  I  used  to  have." 

Such,  somewhat  abridged  from  its  "  says  he  "  and  "  says  I, '" 
its  involutions  and  its  tautologies,  was  the  story  which  Walter 
held  his  breath  to  hear.  But  events  thicken,  and  the  maze  is 
nearly  thridden. 

"  Not  a  moment  now  should  be  lost, "  said  the  curate,  as  they 
left  the  house.  "  Let  us  at  once  proceed  to  a  very  able  magis- 
trate, to  whom  I  can  introduce  you,  and  who  lives  a  little  way 
out  of  the  town." 

"  As  you  will, "  said  Walter,  in  an  altered  and  hollow  voice. 
"  I  am  as  a  man  standing  on  an  eminence,  who  views  the  whole 
scene  he  is  to  travel  over,  stretched  before  him,  but  is  dizzy 
and  bewildered  by  the  height  which  he  has  reached.  I  know, 
I  feel,  that  I  am  on  the  brink  of  fearful  and  dread  discoveries ; 
pray  God  that —  But  heed  me  not,  sir,  heed  me  not;  let  us 
on,  on ! " 

It  was  now  approaching  towards  the  evening;  and  as  they 
walked  on,  having  left  the  town,  the  sun  poured  his  last 
beams  on  a  group  of  persons  that  appeared  hastily  collecting 
and  gathering  round  a  spot,  well  known  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Knaresborough,  called  Thistle  Hill. 

"Let  us  avoid  the  crowd,"  said  the  curate.  "Yet  what,  I 
wonder,  can  be  its  cause  ? "  While  he  spoke,  two  peasants 
hurried  by  towards  the  throng. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  the  crowd  yonder  ? "  asked  the 
curate. 

"I  don't  know  exactly,  your  honor,  but  I  hears  as  how  Jem 
Winnings,  digging  for  stone  for  the  limekiln,  have  dug  out  a 
big  wooden  chest." 

A  shout  from  the  group  broke  in  on  the  peasant's  explana- 
tion,—  a  sudden  simultaneous  shout,  but  not  of  joy;  something 
of  dismay  and  horror  seemed  to  breathe  in  the  sound. 

Walter  looked  at  the  curate.  An  impulse,  a  sudden  in- 
stinct, seemed  to  attract  them  involuntarily  to  the  spot  whence 


EUGENE  ARAM.  33l 

that  sound  arose;  they  quickened  their  pace,  they  made  their 
way  through  the  throng.  A  deep  chest,  that  had  been  vio- 
lently forced,  stood  before  them;  its  contents  had  been 
dragged  to  day,  and  now  lay  on  the  sward  —  a  bleached  and 
mouldering  skeleton!  Several  of  the  bones  were  loose,  and 
detached  from  the  body.  A  general  hubbub  of  voices  from  the 
spectators, —  inquiry,  guess,  fear,  wonder,  —  rang  confusedly 
around. 

"  Yes !  "  said  one  old  man,  with  gray  hair,  leaning  on  a  pick- 
axe, "  it  is  now  about  fourteen  years  since  the  Jew  pedlar  dis- 
appeared. These  are  probably  his  bones,  —  he  was  supposed  to 
have  been  murdered !  " 

"  Nay ! "  screeched  a  woman,  drawing  back  a  child  who,  all 
unalarmed,  was  about  to  touch  the  ghastly  relics,  "nay,  the 
pedlar  was  heard  of  afterwards.  I  '11  tell  ye,  ye  may  be  sure 
these  are  the  bones  of  Clarke, —  Daniel  Clarke,  —  whom  the 
country  was  so  stirred  about  when  we  were  young ! " 

"Right,  dame,  right!  It  is  Clarke's  skeleton,"  was  the 
simultaneous  cry.  And  Walter,  pressing  forward,  stood  over 
the  bones,  and  waved  his  hand  as  to  guard  them  from  further 
insult.  His  sudden  appearance,  his  tall  stature,  his  wild 
gesture,  the  horror,  the  paleness,  the  grief  of  his  countenance, 
struck  and  appalled  all  present.  He  remained  speechless, 
and  a  sudden  silence  succeeded  the  late  clamor. 

"  And  what  do  you  here,  fools  ?  "  said  a  voice,  abruptly.  The 
spectators  turned :  a  new  comer  had  been  added  to  the  throng, 
—  it  was  Richard  Houseman.  His  dress  loose  and  disar- 
ranged, his  flushed  cheeks  and  rolling  eyes,  betrayed  the 
source  of  consolation  to  which  he  had  flown  from  his  do- 
mestic affliction.  "  What  do  ye  here  ? "  said  he,  reeling 
forward.  "  Ha !  human  bones  ?  And  whose  may  they  be, 
think  ye  ?  " 

"They  are  Clarke's!  "  said  the  woman,  who  had  first  given 
rise  to  that  supposition. 

"Yes,  we  think  they  are  Daniel  Clarke's,  —  he  who  disap- 
peared some  years  ago !  "  cried  two  or  three  voices  in  concert. 

"Clarke's?"  repeated  Houseman,  stooping  down  and  pick- 
ing up  a  thigh-bone,  which  lay  at  a  little  distance  from  the 


332  EUGENE   ARAM. 

rest;  "Clarke's?  Ha!  ha!  they  are  no  more  Clarke's  than 
mine! " 

"  Behold !  "  shouted  Walter,  in  a  voice  that  rang  from  cliff 
to  plain;  and  springing  forward,  he  seized  Houseman  with  a 
giant's  grasp, —  "behold  the  murderer!" 

As  if  the  avenging  voice  of  Heaven  had  spoken,  a  thrilling, 
an  electric  conviction  darted  through  the  crowd.  Each  of  the 
elder  spectators  remembered-  at  once  the  person  of  Houseman, 
and  the  suspicion  that  had  attached  to  his  name. 

"Seize  him!  seize  him!"  burst  forth  from  twenty  voices. 
"Houseman  is  the  mvirderer!" 

"Murderer!"  faltered  Houseman,  trembling  in  the  iron 
hands  of  Walter, —  "murderer  of  whom  ?  I  tell  ye  these  are 
not  Clarke's  bones!" 

"  Where  then  do  they  lie  ?  "  cried  his  arrester. 

Pale,  confused,  conscience-stricken,  the  bewilderment  of 
intoxication  mingling  with  that  of  fear.  Houseman  turned  a 
ghastly  look  around  him,  and,  shrinking  from  the  eyes  of  all, 
reading  in  the  eyes  of  all  his  condemnation,  he  gasped  out, 
"  Search  St.  Robert's  Cave,  in  the  turn  at  the  entrance ! " 

"Away!"  rang  the  deep  voice  of  Walter,  on  the  instant; 
"  away !     To  the  cave,  to  the  cave !  " 

On  the  banks  of  the  River  Nid,  whose  waters  keep  an  ever- 
lasting murmur  to  the  crags  and  trees  that  overhang  them,  is 
a  wild  and  dreary  cavern,  hollowed  from  a  rock  Tyhich,  accord- 
ing to  tradition,  was  formerly  the  hermitage  of  one  of  those 
early  enthusiasts  who  made  their  solitude  in  the  sternest  re- 
cesses of  earth,  and  from  the  austerest  thoughts  and  the  bit- 
terest penance  wrought  their  joyless  offerings  to  the  great 
Spirit  of  the  lovely  world.  To  this  desolate  spot,  called, 
from  the  name  of  its  once  celebrated  eremite,  St.  Robert's 
Cave,  the  crowd  now  swept,  increasing  its  numbers  as  it 
advanced. 

The  old  man  who  had  discovered  the  unknown  remains, 
which  were  gathered  up  and  made  a  part  of  the  procession, 
led  the  way;  Houseman,  placed  between  two  strong  and  active 
men,  went  next;  and  Walter  followed  behind,  fixing  his  eyes 
mutely  upon  the  ruffian.     The  curate  had  had  the  precaution 


EUGENE   ARAM.  333 

to  send  on  before  for  torches,  for  the  wintry  evening  now 
darkened  round  them,  and  the  light  from  the  torch-bearers, 
who  met  tliem  at  the  cavern,  cast  forth  its  red  and  kirid  flare 
at  the  mouth  of  the  chasm.  One  of  these  torches  Walter  him- 
self seized,  and  his  was  the  first  step  that  entered  the  gloomy 
passage.  At  this  place  and  time,  Houseman,  who  till  then, 
throughout  their  short  journey,  had  seemed  to  have  recovered 
a  sort  of  dogged  self-possession,  recoiled,  and  the  big  drops 
of  fear  or  agony  fell  fast  from  his  brow.  He  was  dragged 
forward  forcibly  into  the  cavern;  and  now  as  the  space  filled, 
and  the  torches  flickered  against  the  grim  walls,  glaring  on 
faces  which  caught,  from  the  deep  and  thrilling  contagion  of 
a  common  sentiment,  one  common  expression,  it  was  not  well 
possible  for  the  wildest  imagination  to  conceive  a  scene  better 
fitted  for  the  unhallowed  burial-place  of  the  murdered  dead. 

The  eyes  of  all  now  turned  upon  Houseman;  and  he,  after 
twice  vainly  endeavoring  to  speak,  for  the  words  died  inar- 
ticulate and  choked  within  him,  advancing  a  few  steps,  pointed 
towards  a  spot  on  which,  the  next  moment,  fell  the  concen- 
trated light  of  every  torch.  An  indescribable  and  universal 
murmur,  and  then  a  breathless  silence,  ensued.  On  the  spot 
which  Houseman  had  indicated,  with  the  head  placed  to  the 
right,  lay  what  once  had  been  a  human  body! 

"Can  you  swear,"  said  the  priest,  solemnly,  as  he  turned 
to  Houseman,   "  that  these  are  the  bones  of  Clarke  ? " 

"Before  God,  I  can  swear  it!  "  replied  Houseman,  at  length 
finding  his  voice. 

"My  Father!"  broke  from  Walter's  lips  as  he  sank  upon 
his  knees;  and  that  exclamation  completed  the  awe  and  horror 
which  prevailed  in  the  breasts  of  all  present.  Stung  by  a 
sense  of  the  danger  he  had  drawn  upon  himself,  and  despair 
and  excitement  restoring,  in  some  measure,  not  only  his  nat- 
ural hardihood,  but  his  natural  astuteness,  Houseman,  here 
mastering  his  emotions,  and  making  that  effort  which  he  was 
afterwards  enabled  to  follow  up  with  an  advantage  to  himself 
of  which  he  could  not  then  have  dreamed, —  Houseman,  I  say, 
cried  aloud, — 

"But  /did  not  do  the  deed;  I  am  not  the  murderer." 


834  EUGENE   ARAM. 

" Speak  out!     Whom  do  you  accuse  ? "  said  the  curate. 

Drawing  his  breath  hard,  and  setting  his  teeth  as  with  some 
steeled  determination,  Houseman  replied, — 

"  The  murderer  is  Eugene  Aram !  " 

"Aram!"  shouted  Walter,  starting  to  his  feet:  "0  God, 
thy  hand  hath  directed  me  hither  I "  And  suddenly  and  at 
once  sense  left  him,  and  he  fell,  as  if  a  shot  had  pierced 
through  his  heart,  beside  the  remains  of  that  father  whom 
he  had  thus  mysteriously  discovered. 


BOOK    V. 


or  avT(^  KaKCL  rei/xet  dvrjp  d\\(j)  KaKO.  r(6x<^', 

Hesiod. 

Surely  the  man  that  plotteth  ill  against  his  neighbor  perpetrateth  ill  against 
himself,  and  the  evil  design  is  most  evil  to  him  that  deviseth  it. 


CHAPTER   I. 

GEASSDALE. THE  MORNING  OF  THE  MARRIAGE, —  THE  CRONES' 

GOSSIP. THE    BRIDE    AT    HER    TOILET. THE    ARRIVAL. 

Jam  veniet  virgo,  jam  dicetur  Hymenisus, 

Hymen,  O  Hymeusee !     Hymen  ades,  O  Hj^menaee !  ^ 

Catullus  :  Carmen  Nuptiale. 

It  was  now  the  morning  in  whicli  Eugene  Aram  was  to  be 
married  to  Madeline  Lester.  The  student's  house  had  been 
set  in  order  for  the  arrival  of  the  bride;  and  though  it  was 
yet  early  morn,  two  old  women,  whom  his  domestic  (now  not 
the  only  one,  for  a  buxom  lass  of  eighteen  had  been  trans- 
planted from  Lester's  household  to  meet  the  additional  cares 
that  the  change  of  circumstances  brought  to  Aram's)  had  in- 
vited to  assist  her  in  arranging  what  was  already  arranged, 
were  bustling  about  the  lower  apartments  and  making  matters, 
as  they  call  it,  "tidy." 

"Them  flowers  look  but  poor  things,  after  all,"  muttered  an 
old  crone,  whom  our  readers  will  recognize  as  Dame  Dark- 
mans,  placing  a  bowl  of  exotics  on  the  table.  "They  does 
not  look  nigh  so  cheerful  as  them  as  grows  in  the  open  air." 

1  "  Now  shall  the  Virgin  arrive ;  now  shall  be  sung  the  Hymeneal,  —  Hymen 
Hymenasus  !     Be  present,  O  Hymen  Hymenaeus !  " 


336  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"Tush!  Goody  Darkmans,"  said  the  second  gossip.  "They 
be  much  prettier  and  fiuer,  to  my  mind;  and  so  said  Miss 
Nelly  when  she  plucked  them  last  night  and  sent  me  down 
with  them.  They  says  there  is  not  a  blade  o'  grass  that  the 
master  does  not  know.  He  must  be  a  good  man  to  love  the 
things  of  the  field  so." 

"Ho!"  said  Dame  Darkmans,  "ho!  When  Joe  Wrench 
was  hanged  for  shooting  the  lord's  keeper,  and  he  mounted 
the  scaffold  wid  a  nosegay  in  his  hand,  he  said,  in  a  peevish- 
voice,  says  he :  '  Why  does  not  they  give  me  a  tarnation  ?  I 
always  loved  them  sort  o'  flowers, —  I  wore  them  when  I  went 
a  courting  Bess  Lucas, —  an'  I  would  like  to  die  with  one  in 
my  hand ! '  So  a  man  may  like  flowers,  and  be  but  a  hempen 
dog  after  all !  " 

"Now  don't  you,  Goody;  be  still,  can't  you  ?  What  a  tale 
for  a  marriage  day !  " 

"  Tally  vally ! "  returned  the  grim  hag,  "  many  a  blessing 
carries  a  curse  in  its  arms,  as  the  new  moon  carries  the 
old.  This  won't  be  one  of  your  happy  weddings,  I  tell 
ye." 

"  And  why  d'  ye  say  that  ?  " 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  man  with  a  look  like  that  make  a  happy 
husband  ?  No,  no !  Can  ye  fancy  the  merry  laugh  o'  childer 
in  this  house,  or  a  babe  on  the  father's  knee,  or  the  happy, 
still  smile  on  the  mother's  winsome  face,  some  few  years 
hence  ?  No,  jNIadge!  the  de'il  has  set  his  black  claw  on  the 
man's  brow." 

"Hush,  hush,  Goody  Darkmans;  he  may  hear  o'  ye!  "  said 
the  second  gossip,  who,  having  now  done  all  that  remained  to 
do,  had  seated  herself  down  by  the  window,  while  the  more 
ominous  crone,  leaning  over  Aram's  oak  chair,  uttered  from 
thence  her  sibyl  bodings. 

"No,"  replied  Mother  Darkmans,  "I  seed  him  go  out  an 
hour  agone,  when  the  sun  was  just  on  the  rise;  and  I  said, 
when  I  seed  him  stroam  into  the  wood  yonder,  and  the  ould 
leaves  splashed  in  the  damp  under  his  feet,  and  his  hat  was 
aboon  his  brows,  and  his  lips  went  so, —  I  said,  says  I,  'tis 
not  the  man  that  will  make  a  hearth  bright  that  would  walk 


EUGENE   ARAIM.  337 

thus  on  his  marriage  day.  But  I  knows  what  I  knows,  and  I 
minds  what  I  seed  last  night." 

"Why,  what  did  you  see  last  night  ?"  asked  the  listener, 
with  a  trembling  voice;  for  Mother  Darkmans  was  a  great 
teller  of  ghost  and  witch  tales,  and  a  certain  ineffable  awe  of 
her  dark  gypsy  features  and  malignant  words  had  circulated 
pretty  largely  throughout  the  village. 

"Why,  I  sat  up  here  with  the  ould  deaf  woman,  and  we 
were  a  drinking  the  health  of  the  man  and  his  wife  that  is  to 
be,  and  it  was  nigh  twelve  o'  the  clock  ere  I  minded  it  was 
time  to  go  home.  Well,  so  I  puts  on  my  cloak,  and  the  moon 
was  up,  an'  I  goes  along  by  the  wood,  and  up  by  Fairlegh 
Field,  an'  I  was  singing  the  ballad  on  Joe  Wrench's  hanging, 
for  the  spirats  had  made  me  gamesome,  when  I  sees  somemut 
dark  creep,  creep,  but  iver  so  fast,  arter  me  over  the  field, 
and  making  right  ahead  to  the  village.  And  I  stands  still, 
an'  I  was  not  a  bit  afeared;  but  sure  I  thought  it  was  no  liv- 
ing cretur,  at  the  first  sight.  And  so  it  comes  up  faster  and 
faster,  and  then  I  sees  it  was  not  one  thing,  but  a  many,  many 
things,  and  they  darkened  the  whole  field  afore  me.  And 
what  d'ye  think  they  was?  A  whole  body  o'  gray  rats, — 
thousands  and  thousands  on  'em;  and  they  were  making  away 
from  the  outbuildings  here.  For  sure  they  knew,  the  witch 
things,  that  an  ill  luck  sat  on  the  spot.  And  so  I  stood 
aside  by  the  tree,  an'  I  laughed  to  look  on  the  ugsome  creturs 
as  they  swept  close  by  me,  tramp,  tramp'!  and  they  never 
heeded  me  a  jot;  but  some  on  'em  looked  aslant  at  me  with 
their  glittering  eyes,  and  showed  their  white  teeth,  as  if  they 
grinned,  and  were  saying  to  me,  '  Ha,  ha!  Goody  Darkmans, 
the  house  that  we  leave  is  a  falling  house,  for  the  devil  will 
have  his  own. '  " 

In  some  parts  of  the  country,  and  especially  in  that  where 
our  scene  is  laid,  no  omen  is  more  superstitiousl}^  believed 
evil  than  the  departure  of  these  loathsome  animals  from  their 
accustomed  habitation;  the  instinct  which  is  supposed  to 
make  them  desert  an  unsafe  tenement  is  supposed  also  to 
make  them  predict,  in  desertion,  ill  fortune  to  the  possessor. 
But  while  the  ears  of  the  listening  gossip  were  still  tingling 

22 


338  EUGENE  ARAM. 

with  this  narration,  the  dark  figure  of  the  student  passed  the 
window,  and  tlie  old  women,  starting  up,  appeared  in  all  the 
bustle  of  preparation,  as  Aram  now  entered  the  apartment. 

"A  happy  day,  your  honor;  a  happy  good  morning,"  said 
both  the  crones  in  a  breath;  but  the  blessing  of  the  worse- 
natured  was  vented  in  so  harsh  a  croak  that  Aram  turned 
round  as  if  struck  by  the  sound,  and  still  more  disliking  the 
well-remembered  aspect  of  the  person  from  whom  it  came, 
waved  his  hand  impatiently,   and  bade  them  begone. 

"A-whish,  a-whish!  "  muttered  Dame  Darkmans, —  "to 
spake  so  to  the  poor;  but  the  rats  never  lie,  the  bonny 
things ! " 

Aram  threw  himself  into  his  chair,  and  remained  for  some 
moments  absorbed  in  a  revery,  which  did  not  bear  the  aspect 
of  gloom.  Then,  walking  once  or  twice  to  and  fro  the  apart- 
ment, he  stopped  opposite  the  chimney-piece,  over  which  were 
slung  the  firearms,  which  he  never  omitted  to  keep  charged 
and  primed. 

"Humph!  "  he  said,  half  aloud,  "ye  have  been  but  idle  ser- 
vants; and  now  ye  are  but  little  likely  ever  to  requite  the 
care  I  have  bestowed  upon  you." 

With  that  a  faint  smile  crossed  his  features;  and  turning 
away,  he  ascended  the  stairs  that  led  to  the  lofty  chamber  in 
which  he  had  been  so  often  wont  to  outwatch  the  stars, — 

"  The  souls  of  systems,  and  the  lords  of  life, 
Througli  their  wide  empires." 

Before  we  follow  him  to  his  high  and  lonely  retreat  we  will 
bring  the  reader  to  the  manor-house,  where  all  was  already 
gladness  and  quiet  but  deep  joy. 

It  wanted  about  three  hours  to  that  fixed  for  the  marriage ; 
and  Aram  was  not  expected  at  the  manor-house  till  an  hour 
before  the  celebration  of  the  event.  Nevertheless,  the  bells 
were  already  ringing  loudly  and  blithely;  and  the  near  vicin- 
ity of  the  church  to  the  house  brought  that  sound,  so  inex- 
pressibly buoyant  and  cheering,  to  the  ears  of  the  bride  with 
a  noisy  merriment  that  seemed  like  the  hearty  voice  of  an  old- 
fashioned  friend  who  seeks  in  his  greeting  rather  cordiality 


EUGENE   ARAM.  -  339 

than  discretion.  Before  her  glass  stood  the  beautiful,  the 
virgin,  the  glorious  form  of  Madeline  Lester;  and  Ellinor, 
with  trembling  hands  (and  a  voice  between  a  laugh  and  a  cry), 
was  braiding  up  her  sister's  rich  hair,  and  uttering  her  hopes, 
her  wishes,  her  congratulations.  The  small  lattice  was  open, 
and  the  air  came  rather  chillingly  to  the  bride's  bosom. 

"It  is  a  gloomy  morning,  dearest  Nell,"  said  she,  shiver- 
ing;   "the  winter  seems  about  to  begin  at  last." 

"  Stay,  I  will  shut  the  window.  The  sun  is  struggling  with 
the  clouds  at  present,  but  I  am  sure  it  v.^ill  clear  up  by  and 
by.  You  don't,  you  don't  leave  us  —  the  word  must  out  — 
till  evening." 

"  Don't  cry !  "  said  Madeline,  half  weeping  herself,  and  sit- 
ting down,  she  drew  Ellinor  to  her;  and  the  two  sisters,  who 
had  never  been  parted  since  birth,  exchanged  tears  that  were 
natural,  though  scarcely  the  unmixed  tears  of  grief. 

"And  what  pleasant  evenings  we  shall  have,"  said  Made- 
line, holding  her  sister's  hands,  "in  the  Christmas  time! 
You  will  be  staying  with  us,  you  know ;  and  that  pretty  old 
room  in  the  north  of  the  house  Eugene  has  already  ordered  to 
be  fitted  up  for  you.  Well,  and  my  dear  father,  and  dear 
Walter,  who  will  be  returned  long  ere  then,  will  walk  over  to 
see  us,  and  praise  my  housekeej^ing,  and  so  forth.  And  then, 
after  dinner,  we  will  draw  near  the  fire, — I  next  to  Eugene, 
and  my  father,  our  guest,  on  the  other  side  of  me,  with  his 
long  gray  hair  and  his  good  fine  face,  with  a  tear  of  kind  feel- 
ing in  his  eye,  —  you  know  that  look  he  has  whenever  he  is 
affected.  And  at  a  little  distance  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hearth  will  be  you  —  and  Walter;  I  suppose  we  must  make 
room  for  him.  And  Eugene,  who  will  be  then  the  liveliest 
of  you  all,  shall  read  to  us  with  his  soft,  clear  voice,  or  tell 
us  all  about  the  birds  and  flowers  and  strange  things  in  other 
countries.  And  then  after  supper  we  will  walk  half-way 
home  across  that  beautiful  valley  —  beautiful  even  in  winter 
—  with  my  father  and  Walter,  and  count  the  stars,  and  take 
new  lessons  in  astronomy,  and  hear  tales  about  the  astrologers 
and  the  alchemists,  with  their  fine  old  dreams.  Ah!  it  will 
be  such  a  happy  Christmas !     And  then,  when  spring  comes, 


340  EUGENE   ARAM. 

some  fine  morning  —  finer  than  this  —  when  the  birds  are 
about,  and  the  leaves  getting  green,  and  the  flowers  springing 
up  every  day,  I  shall  be  called  in  to  help  your  toilet,  as  you 
have  helped  mine,  and  to  go  with  you  to  church,  though  not, 
alas !  as  your  bridesmaid.  Ah !  whom  shall  we  have  for  that 
duty  ?  " 

"Pshaw!  "  said  Ellinor,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

While  the  sisters  were  thus  engaged,  and  Madeline  was  try- 
ing, with  her  innocent  kindness  of  heart,  to  exhilarate  the 
spirits,  so  naturally  depressed,  of  her  doting  sister,  the  sound 
of  carriage-wheels  was  heard  in  the  distance, —  nearer,  nearer; 
now  the  sound  stopped,  as  at  the  gate;  now  fast,  faster, —  fast 
as  the  postilions  could  ply  whip  and  the  horses  tear  along. 
While  the  groups  in  the  church-yard  ran  forth  to  gaze,  and  the 
bells  rang  merrily  all  the  while,  two  chaises  whirled  by  Made- 
line's window  and  stopped  at  the  porch  of  the  house.  The 
sisters  had  flown  in  surprise  to  the  casement. 

"It  is,  it  is  —  good  God!  it  is  Walter,"  cried  Ellinor;  "but 
how  pale  he  looks !  " 

"  And  who  are  those  strange  men  with  him  ? "  faltered 
Madeline,  alarmed,  though  she  knew  not  why. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE    STUDENT    ALONE    IN    HIS    CHAMBER. THE   INTERBTJPTION. 

FAITHFUL    LOVE. 

Nequicquam  thalamo  graves 
Hastas    .     .     . 

Vitabis  strepitumque  et  celerem  sequi 
Ajacem.  —  Horace  :  Od.  xv.  lib.  1.^ 

Alone  in  his  favorite  chamber,  the  instruments  of  science 
around  him,  and  books,  some  of  astronomical  research,  some 
of  less  lofty  but  yet  abstruser  lore,  scattered  on  the  tables, 

^  "  In  vain  within  your  nuptial  chamber  will  3'ou  sliun  the  deadly  spears, 
.  .  .  the  hostile  shout,  and  Ajax  eager  in  pursuit." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  341 

Eugene  Aram  indulged  the  last  meditation  he  believed  likely 
to  absorb  his  thoughts  before  that  great  change  of  life  which 
was  to  bless  solitude  with  a  companion. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  pacing  the  apartment  with  folded  arms, 
"yes,  all  is  safe!  He  will  not  again  return;  the  dead  sleeps 
now  without  a  witness.  I  may  lay  this  working  brain  upon 
the  bosom  that  loves  me,  and  not  start  at  night  and  think  that 
the  soft  hand  around  my  neck  is  the  hangman's  gripe.  Back 
to  thyself,  henceforth  and  forever,  my  busy  heart!  Let  not 
thy  secret  stir  from  its  gloomy  depth!  The  seal  is  on  the 
tomb;  henceforth  be  the  spectre  laid.  Yes,  I  must  smooth 
my  brow,  and  teach  my  lip  restraint,  and  smile  and  talk  like 
other  men.  I  have  taken  to  my  hearth  a  watch,  tender,  faith- 
ful, anxious,  —  but  a  watch.  Farewell  the  unguarded  hour! 
The  soul's  relief  in  speech,  the  dark  and  broken,  yet  how  grate- 
ful, confidence  with  self,  farewell!  And  come,  thou  veil! 
subtle,  close,  unvarying,  the  everlasting  curse  of  entire  hy- 
pocrisy, that  under  thee,  as  night,  the  vexed  world  within  may 
sleep,  and  stir  not!  and  all,  in  truth  concealment,  may  seem 
repose ! " 

As  he  uttered  these  thoughts,  the  student  paused  and  looked 
on  the  extended  landscape  that  lay  below.  A  heavy,  chill, 
and  comfortless  mist  sat  saddening  over  the  earth.  Not  a 
leaf  stirred  on  the  autumnal  trees,  but  the  moist  damps  fell 
slowly  and  with  a  mournful  murmur  upon  the  unwaving  grass. 
The  outline  of  the  morning  sun  was  visible,  but  it  gave  forth 
no  lustre :  a  ring  of  watery  and  dark  vapor  girded  the  melan- 
choly orb.  Far  at  the  entrance  of  the  valley  the  wild  fern 
showed  red  and  faded,  and  the  first  march  of  the  deadly  win- 
ter was  already  heralded  by  that  drear  and  silent  desolation 
which  cradles  the  winds  and  storms.  But  amidst  this  cheer- 
less scene  the  distant  note  of  the  merry  marriage-bell  floated 
by,  like  the  good  spirit  of  the  wilderness,  and  the  student 
rather  paused  to  hearken  to  the  note  than  to  survey  the  scene. 

"  My  marriage-bell !  "  said  he.  "  Could  I,  two  short  years 
back,  have  dreamed  of  this  ?  My  marriage-bell !  How  fondly 
my  poor  mother,  when  first  she  learned  pride  for  her  young 
scholar,  would  predict  this  day,  and  blend  its  festivities  with 


342  EUGENE   ARAM. 

the  honor  and  the  wealth  her  son  was  to  acquire !  Alas !  can 
we  have  no  science  to  count  the  stars  and  forebode  the  black 
eclipse  of  the  future  ?  But  peace !  peace !  peace !  I  am,  I 
will,   I  shall  be  happy  now !     Memory,   I  defy  thee ! " 

He  uttered  the  last  words  in  a  deep  and  intense  tone ;  and 
turning  away  as  the  joyful  peal  again  broke  distinctly  on  his 
ear, — 

"  My  marriage-bell !  Oh,  Madeline,  how  wondrously  beloved, 
how  unspeakably  dear  thou  art  to  me!  What  hast  thou  con- 
quered !  How  many  reasons  for  resolve,  how  vast  an  army  in 
the  Past,  has  thy  bright  and  tender  purity  overthrown !  But 
thou —  No,  never  shalt  thou  repent!  "  And  for  several  min- 
utes the  sole  thought  of  the  soliloquist  was  love.  But  scarce 
consciously  to  himself,  a  spirit,  not,  to  all  seeming,  befittea 
to  that  bridal-day, —  vague,  restless,  impressed  with  the  dark 
and  fluttering  shadow  of  coming  change, —  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  his  breast,  and  did  not  long  yield  the  mastery  to  any 
brighter  and  more  serene  emotion. 

"And  why,"  he  said,  as  this  spirit  regained  its  empire  over 
him,  and  he  paused  before  the  "  starred  tubes  "  of  his  beloved 
science, —  "and  why  this  chill,  this  shiver,  in  the  midst  of 
hope  ?  Can  the  mere  breath  of  the  seasons,  the  weight  or 
lightness  of  the  atmosphere,  the  outward  gloom  or  smile  of 
the  brute  mass  called  Nature,  affect  us  thus  ?  Out  on  this 
empty  science,  this  vain  knowledge,  this  little  lore,  if  we  are 
so  fooled  by  the  vile  clay  and  the  common  air  from  our  one 
great  empire,  self !  Great  God !  hast  thou  made  us  in  mercy, 
or  in  disdain  ?  Placed  in  this  narrow  world,  darkness  and 
cloud  around  us;  no  fixed  rule  for  men;  creeds,  morals,  chang- 
ing in  every  clime,  and  growing  like  herbs  upon  the  mere  soil, 

—  we  struggle  to  dispel  the  shadows ;  we  grope  around ;  from 
our  own  heart  and  our  sharp  and  hard  endurance  we  strike 
our  only  light.     For  what?     To  show  us  what  dupes  we  are, 

—  creatures  of  accident,  tools  of  circumstance,  blind  instru- 
ments of  the  scorner  Fate;  the  very  mind,  the  very  reason,  a 
bound  slave  to  the  desires,  the  weakness  of  the  clay;  affected 
by  a  cloud,  dulled  by  the  damps  of  the  foul  marsh ;  stricken 
from  power  to  weakness,  from  sense  to  madness,  to  gaping 


EUGENE  ARAM.  343 

idiocy,  or  delirious  raving,  by  a  putrid  exhalation !  A  rheum, 
a  chill,  and  Caesar  trembles !  The  world's  gods,  that  slay  or 
enlighten  millions,  poor  puppets  to  the  same  rank  imp  which 
calls  up  the  fungus  or  breeds  the  worm, —  pah!  How  little 
worth  is  it  in  this  life  to  be  wise!  Strange,  strange,  how  my 
heart  sinks.  Well,  the  better  sign,  the  better  sign!  In  dan- 
ger it  never  sank." 

Absorbed  in  these  reflections,  Aram  had  not  for  some  min- 
utes noticed  the  sudden  ceasing  of  the  bell;  but  now,  as  h^ 
again  paused  from  his  irregular  and  abrupt  pacings  along  the 
chamber,  the  silence  struck  him,  and  looking  forth,  and  striv- 
ing again  to  catch  the  note,  he  saw  a  little  group  of  men, 
among  whom  he  marked  the  erect  and  comely  form  of  Rowland 
Lester,   approaching  towards  the  house. 

"  What!"  he  thought,  "do  they  come  for  me?  Is  it  so 
late  ?  Have  I  played  the  laggard  ?  Nay,  it  yet  wants  near  an 
hour  to  the  time  they  expected  me.  Well,  some  kindness, 
some  attention  from  my  good  father-in-law;  1  must  thank 
him  for  it.  What!  my  hand  trembles.  How  weak  are  these 
poor  nerves ;  I  must  rest  and  recall  my  mind  to  itself !  " 

And  indeed,  whether  or  not  from  the  novelty  and  impor- 
tance of  the  event  he  was  about  to  celebrate,  or  from  some 
presentiment,  occasioned,  as  he  would  fain  believe,  by  the 
mournful  and  sudden  change  in  the  atmosphere,  an  embar- 
rassment, a  wavering,  a  fear,  very  unwonted  to  the  calm  and 
stately  self-possession  of  Eugene  Aram,  made  itself  painfully 
felt  throughout  his  frame.  He  sank  down  in  his  chair  and 
strove  to  re-collect  himself;  it  was  an  effort  in  which  he  had 
just  succeeded,  when  a  loud  knocking  was  heard  at  the  outer 
door;  it  swung  open;  several  voices  were  heard.  Aram 
sprang  up,   pale,  breathless,   his  lips  apart. 

"Great  G-od!"  he  exclaimed,  clasping  his  hands.  "'Mur- 
derer ! '  —  was  that  the  word  1  heard  shouted  forth  ?  The 
voice,  too,  is  Walter  Lester's.  Has  he  returned  ?  Can  he 
have  learned  —  ?  " 

To  rush  to  the  door,  to  throw  across  it  a  long,  heavy  iron 
bar,  which  would  resist  assaults  of  no  common  strength,  was 
his  first  impulse.    Thus  enabled  to  gain  time  for  reflection,  his 


344  EUGENE   ARAM. 

active  and  alarmed  mind  ran  over  the  whole  field  of  expedient 
and  conjecture.  Again,  "Murderer!"  "Stay  me  not,  "  cried 
Walter,  from  below  ;  "my  hand  shall  seize  the  murderer!  " 

Guess  was  now  over  ;  danger  and  death  were  marching  on 
him.  Escape, —  how?  whither?  The  height  forbade  the 
thought  of  flight  from  the  casement !  The  door  ?  —  he  heard 
loud  steps  already  hurrying  up  the  stairs;  his  hands  clutched 
convulsively  at  his  breast,  where  his  tire-arms  were  generally 
concealed,  —  they  were  left  below.  He  glanced  one  lightning 
glance  round  the  room ;  no  weapon  of  any  kind  was  at  hand. 
His  brain  reeled  for  a  moment,  his  breath  gasped,  a  mortal 
sickness  passed  over  his  heart,  and  then  the  mind  triumphed 
over  all.  He  drew  up  to  his  full  height,  folded  his  arms  dog- 
gedly on  his  breast,  and  muttering,  "The  accuser  comes, —  I 
have  it  still  to  refute  the  charge ! "  he  stood  prepared  to  meet, 
nor  despairing  to  evade,   the  worst. 

As  waters  close  over  the  object  which  divided  them,  all 
these  thoughts,  these  fears,  and  this  resolution  had  been  but 
the  work,  the  agitation,  and  the  succeeding  calm  of  the  mo- 
ment; that  moment  was  past. 

"Admit  us!"  cried  the  voice  of  Walter  Lester,  knocking 
fiercely  at  the  door. 

"Not  so  fervently,  boy,"  said  Lester,  laying  his  hand  on 
his  nephew's  shoulder;  "your  tale  is  yet  to  be  proved, —  I 
believe  it  not.  Treat  him  as  innocent,  I  pray, —  I  command, 
—  till  you  have  shown  him  guilty." 

"Away,  uncle!"  said  the  fiery  AValter;  "he  is  my  father's 
murderer.  God  hath  given  justice  to  my  hands."  These 
words,  uttered  in  a  lower  key  than  before,  were  but  indis- 
tinctly heard  by  Aram  through  the  massy  door. 

"  Open,  or  we  force  our  entrance !  "  shouted  Walter  again ; 
and  Aram,  speaking  for  the  first  time,  replied  in  a  clear  and 
sonorous  voice,  so  that  an  angel,  had  one  spoken,  could  not 
have  more  deeply  impressed  the  heart  of  Rowland  Lester  with 
a  conviction  of  the  student's  innocence, — 

"Who  knocks  so  rudely  ?  What  means  this  violence  ?  I 
open  my  doors  to  my  friends.     Ls  it  a  friend  who  asks  it  ?" 

"7  ask  it,"  said  Rowland  Lester,  in  a  trembling  and  agitated 


EUGENE   ARAM.  345 

voice.  "There  seems  some  dreadful  mistake:  come  forth, 
Eugene,   and  rectify  it  by  a  word," 

*'  Is  it  you,  Rowland  Lester  ?  It  is  enough.  I  was  but  with 
my  books,  and  had  secured  myself  from  intrusion.     Enter." 

The  bar  was  withdrawn,  the  door  was  burst  open,  and  even 
Walter  Lester,  even  the  officers  of  justice  with  him,  drew 
back  for  a  moment  as  they  beheld  the  lofty  brow,  the  majestic 
presence,  the  features  so  unutterably  calm,  of  Eugene  Aram. 

"What  want  you,  sirs  ?"  said  he,  unmoved  and  unfaltering, 
though  in  the  officers  of  justice  he  recognized  faces  he  had 
known  before,  and  in  that  distant  town  in  which  all  that  he 
dreaded  in  the  past  lay  treasured  up.  At  the  sound  of  his 
voice  the  spell  that  for  an  instant  had  arrested  the  step  of  the 
avenging  son  melted  away. 

"Seize  him!"  he  cried  to  the  officers;  "you  see  your 
prisoner." 

"Hold!"  cried  Aram,  drawing  back.  "By  what  authority 
is  this  outrage, —  for  what  am  I  arrested  ?" 

"Behold,"  said  Walter,  speaking  through  his  teeth,  "behold 
our  warrant!  You  are  accused  of  murder!  Know  you  the 
name  of  Richard  Houseman, —  pause,  consider,  —  or  that  of 
Daniel  Clarke?  " 

Slowly  Aram  lifted  his  ej^es  from  the  warrant,  and  it  might 
be  seen  that  his  face  was  a  shade  more  pale,  though  his  look 
did  not  quail,  or  his  nerves  tremble.  Slowly  he  turned  his 
gaze  upon  Walter;  and  then,  after  one  moment's  survey, 
dropped  it  once  more  on  the  paper. 

"The  name  of  Houseman  is  not  unfamiliar  to  me,"  said  he 
calmly,   but  with  effort. 

"And  knew  you  Daniel  Clarke  ?'' 

"What  mean  these  questions  ?"  said  Aram,  losing  temper, 
and  stamping  violently  on  the  ground.  "Is  it  thus  that  a 
man,  free  and  guiltless,  is  to  be  questioned  at  the  behest,  or 
rather  outrage,  of  every  lawless  boy  ?  Lead  me  to  some  au- 
thority meet  for  me  to  answer;  for  you,  boy,  my  answer  is 
contempt. " 

"Big  words  shall  not  save  thee,  murderer!"  cried  W^alter, 
breaking  from  his  uncle,  who  in  vain  endeavored  to  hold  him, 


346  EUGENE  ARAM. 

and  laying  his  powerful  grasp  upon  Aram's  shoulder.  Livid 
was  the  glare  that  shot  from  the  student's  eye  upon  his  as- 
sailer;  and  so  fearfully  did  his  features  work  and  change  with 
the  passions  within  him  that  even  Walter  felt  a  strange  shud- 
der thrill  through  his  frame. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Aram  at  last,  mastering  his  emotions, 
and  resuming  some  portion  of  the  remarkable  dignity  that 
characterized  his  usual  bearing,  as  he  turned  towards  the 
officers  of  justice,  "  I  call  upon  you  to  discharge  your  duty.  If 
this  be  a  rightful  warrant,  I  am  your  prisoner,  but  I  am  not 
this  man's.     I  command  your  protection  from  him!" 

Walter  had  already  released  his  gripe,  and  said,  in  a  mut- 
tered voice, — 

"My  passion  misled  me;  violence  is  unworthy  my  solemn 
cause.     God  and  Justice  —  not  these  hands  —  are  my  avengers. " 

^'' Your  avengers!''  said  Aram.  "What  dark  words  are 
these  ?  This  warrant  accuses  me  of  the  murder  of  one  Daniel 
Clarke.    What  is  he  to  thee  ? " 

"Mark  me,  man!  "  said  Walter,  fixing  his  eyes  on  Aram's 
countenance.  "The  name  of  Daniel  Clarke  was  a  feigned 
name;  the  real  name  was  Geoffrey  Lester:  that  murdered 
Lester  was  my  father,  and  the  brother  of  him  whose  daugh- 
ter, had  I  not  come  to-day,  you  would  have  called  your  wife!  " 

Aram  felt,  while  these  words  were  uttered,  that  the  eyes  of 
all  in  the  room  were  on  him;  and  perhaps  that  knowledge 
enabled  him  not  to  reveal  by  outward  sign  what  must  have 
passed  within  during  the  awful  trial  of  that  moment. 

"It  is  a  dreadful  tale,"  he  said,  "if  true,  —  dreadful  to  me, 
so  nearly  allied  to  that  family.  But  as  yet  I  grapple  with 
shadows." 

"What!  does  not  you*:  conscience  now  convict  you  ?"  cried 
Walter,  staggered  by  the  calmness  of  the  prisoner.  But  here 
Lester,  who  could  no  longer  contain  himself,  interposed;  he 
put  by  his  nephew,  and  rushing  to  Aram,  fell,  weeping,  upon 
his  neck. 

"  I  do  not  accuse  thee,  Eugene,  my  son,  my  son !  I  feel,  I 
know  thou  art  innocent  of  this  monstrous  crime ;  some  horrid 
delusion  darkens  that  poor  boy's  sight.    You,  you,  who  would 


EUGENE   ARAM.  347 

walk  aside  to  save  a  worm!  "  and  the  poor  old  man,  overcome 
with  his  emotions,  covild  literally  say  no  more. 

Aram  looked  down  on  Lester  with  a  compassionate  expres- 
sion; and  soothing  him  with  kind  words,  and  promises  that 
all  would  be  explained,  gently  moved  from  his  hold,  and,  anx- 
ious to  terminate  the  scene,  silently  motioned  the  officers  to 
proceed.  Struck  with  the  calmness  and  dignity  of  his  manner, 
and  fully  impressed  by  it  with  the  notion  of  his  innocence, 
the  officers  treated  him  with  a  marked  respect;  they  did  not 
even  walk  by  his  side,  but  suffered  him  to  follow  their  steps. 
As  they  descended  the  stairs,  Aram  turned  round  to  Walter, 
with  a  bitter  and  reproachful  countenance, — 

"And  so,  young  man,  your  malice  against  me  has  reached 
even  to  this !     Will  nothing  but  my  life  content  you  ? " 

"Is  the  desire  of  execution  on  my  father's  murderer  but  the 
wish  of  malice  ?"  retorted  Walter;  though  his  heart  yet  well- 
nigh  misgave  him  as  to  the  grounds  on  which  his  suspicion 
rested. 

Aram  smiled,  as  half  in  scorn,  half  through  incredulity; 
and,  shaking  his  head  gently,  moved  on  without  further 
words. 

The  three  old  women,  who  had  remained  in  listening  aston- 
ishment at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  gave  way  as  the  men  de- 
scended; but  the  one  who  so  long  had  been  Aram's  solitary 
domestic,  and  who,  from  her  deafness,  was  still  benighted  and 
uncomprehending  as  to  the  causes  of  his  seizure,  though  from 
that  very  reason  her  alarm  was  the  greater  and  more  acute, 
she,  impatiently  thrusting  away  the  officers,  and  mumbling 
some  unintelligible  anathema  as  she  did  so,  flung  herself 
at  the  feet  of  a  master  whose  quiet  habits  and  constant  kind- 
ness had  endeared  him  to  her  humble  and  faithful  heart, 
and  exclaimed, — 

"  What  are  they  doing  ?  Have  they  the  heart  to  ill-use 
you  ?  0  master,  God  bless  you !  God  shield  you !  I  shall 
never  see  you,  who  was  my  only  friend  —  who  was  every 
one's  friend  —  any  more!" 

Aram  drew  himself  from  her,  and  said,  with  a  quivering 
lip  to  liowland  Lester, — 


348  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"If  her  fears  are  true  —  if  —  if  I  never  more  return  hither, 
see  that  her  old  age  does  not  starve  —  does  not  want." 

Lester  could  not  speak  for  sobbing,  but  the  request  was  re- 
membered. And  now  Aram,  turning  aside  his  proud  head  to 
conceal  his  emotion,  beheld  open  the  door  of  the  room  so 
trimly  prepared  for  Madeline's  reception :  the  flowers  smiled 
upon  him  from  their  stands.  "Lead  on,  gentlemen,"  he  said 
quickly.     And  so  Eugene  Aram  passed  his  threshold ! 

"Ho,  ho!"  muttered  the  old  hag  whose  predictions  in  the 
morning  had  been  so  ominous, —  "ho,  ho!  you'll  believe 
Goody  Darkmans  another  time !  Providence  respects  the  say- 
ings of  the  ould.  'T  was  not  for  nothing  the  rats  grinned  at 
me  last  night.  But  let 's  in  and  have  a  warm  glass.  He,  he! 
there  will  be  all  the  strong  liquors  for  us  now ;  the  Lord  is 
merciful  to  the  poor !  " 

As  the  little  group  proceeded  through  the  valley,  the  officers 
first,  Aram  and  Lester  side  by  side,  Walter,  with  his  hand  on 
his  pistol  and  his  eye  on  the  prisoner,  a  little  behind,  Lester 
endeavored  to  cheer  the  prisoner's  spirits  and  his  own  by  in- 
sisting on  the  madness  of  the  charge  and  the  certainty  of  in- 
stant acquittal  from  the  magistrate  to  whom  they  were  bound, 
and  who  was  esteemed  the  one  both  most  acute  and  most  just 
in  the  county.     Aram  interrupted  him  somewhat  abruptly, — 

"My  friend,  enough  of  this  presently.  But  Madeline, — 
what  knows  she  as  yet  ? " 

"Nothing;  of  course,  we  kept  —  " 

"Exactly,  exactly;  you  have  done  wisely.  Why  need  she 
learn  anything  as  yet  ?  Say  an  arrest  for  debt,  a  mistake, 
an  absence  but  of  a  day  or  so  at  most, — you  understand  ?" 

"Yes.  Will  you  not  see  her,  Eugene,  before  you  go,  and 
say  this  yourself  ?  " 

"  I !  —  0  God !  —  I !  to  whom  this  day  was  —  No,  no  ;  save 
me,  I  implore  you,  from  the  agony  of  such  a  contrast, —  an 
interview  so  mournful  and  unavailing.  No,  we  must  not 
meet!  But  whither  go  we  now?  Not,  not,  surely,  through 
all  the  idle  gossips  of  the  village, —  the  crowd  already  excited 
to  gape  and  stare  and  speculate  on  the  — " 

"No,"  interrupted  Lester;  "the  carriages  await  us  at  the 


EUGENE  ARAM.  349 

farther  end  of  the  valley.  I  thought  of  that, —  for  the  rash 
boy  behind  seems  to  have  changed  his  nature.  I  loved  — 
Heaven  knows  how  I  loved  my  brother!  But  before  I  would 
let  suspicion  thus  blind  reason,  I  would  suffer  inquiry  to  sleep 
forever  on  his  fate." 

"Your  nephew,"  said  Aram,  "has  ever  wronged  me.  But- 
waste  not  words  on  him ;  let  us  think  only  of  Madeline.  Will 
you  go  back  at  once  to  her, — tell  her  a  tale  to  lull  her  appre- 
hensions, and  then  follow  us  with  haste  ?  I  am  alone  among 
enemies  till  you  come." 

Lester  was  about  to  answer,  when,  at  a  turn  in  the  road 
which  brought  the  carriage  within  view,  they  perceived  two 
figures  in  white  hastening  towards  them;  and  ere  Aram  was 
prepared  for  the  surprise,  Madeline  had  sunk  pale,  trembling, 
and  all  breathless  on  his  breast. 

"I  could  not  keep  her  back,"  said  Ellinor,  apologetically, 
to  her  father. 

"  Back !  and  why  ?  Am  I  not  in  my  proper  place  ?  "  cried 
Madeline,  lifting  her  face  from  Aram's  breast;  and  then,  as 
her  eyes  circled  the  group,  and  rested  on  Aram's  countenance, 
now  no  longer  calm,  but  full  of  woe,  of  passion,  of  disap- 
pointed love,  of  anticipated  despair,  she  rose,  and  gradually 
recoiling  with  a  fear  which  struck  dumb  her  voice,  thrice  at- 
tempted to  speak,   and  thrice  failed. 

"But  what  —  what  is  —  what  means  this  ?"  exclaimed  Elli- 
nor. "  Why  do  you  weep,  father  ?  Why  does  Eugene  turn 
away  his  face  ?  You  answer  not.  Speak,  for  God's  sake ! 
These  strangers, —  what  are  they?  And  you,  Walter,  you, 
—  why  are  you  so  pale  ?  Why  do  you  thus  knit  your  brows 
and  fold  your  arms !  You,  you  will  tell  me  the  meaning  of 
this  dreadful  silence,  —  this  scene.  Speak,  cousin,  dear  cou- 
sin,  speak !  " 

"Speak!"  cried  Madeline,  finding  voice  at  length,  but  in 
the  sharp  and  straining  tone  of  wild  terror,  in  which  they 
recognized  no  note  of  the  natural  music.  The  single  word 
sounded  rather  as  a  shriek  than  an  adjuration ;  and  so  pierc- 
ingly it  ran  through  the  hearts  of  all  present  that  the  very 
officers,  hardened  as  their  trade  had  made  them,  felt  as  if 


350  EUGENE  ARAM. 

they  would   rather  have    faced  death    than    answered   that 
command. 

A  dead,  long,  dreary  pause,  and  Aram  broke  it.  "  Madeline 
Lester,"  said  he,  "prove  yourself  worthy  of  the  hour  of  trial. 
Exert  yourself;  arouse  your  heart;  be  prepared!  You  are 
the  betrothed  of  one  whose  soul  never  quailed  before  man's 
angry  word.     Remember  that,   and  fear  not !  " 

"  I  will  not,  I  will  not,  Eugene !     Speak,  only  speak  I  " 

"You  have  loved  me  in  good  report;  trust  me  now  in  ill. 
They  accuse  me  of  a  crime, —  a  heinous  crime!  At  first  I 
would  not  have  told  you  the  real  charge.  Pardon  me,  I 
wronged  you,  —  now,  know  all!  They  accuse  me,  I  say,  of 
crime.  Of  what  crime  ?  you  ask.  Ay,  I  scarce  know,  so 
vague  is  the  charge,  so  fierce  the  accuser;  but  prepare,  Made- 
line,—  it  is  of  murder!'' 

Kaised  as  her  spirits  had  been  by  the  haughty  and  earnest 
tone  of  Aram's  exhortation,  Madeline  now,  though  she  turned 
deadly  pale,  though  the  earth  swam  round  and  round,  yet 
repressed  the  shriek  upon  her  lips  as  those  horrid  words  shot 
into  her  soul. 

"  You !  —  murder !  —  you !     And  who  dares  accuse  you  ?  " 

"Behold  him,  —  your  cousin! '" 

Ellinor  heard,  turned,  fixed  her  eyes  on  Walter's  sullen 
brow  and  motionless  attitude,  and  fell  senseless  to  the  earth. 
Not  thus  Madeline.  As  there  is  an  exhaustion  that  forbids, 
not  invites  repose,  so  when  the  mind  is  thoroughly  on  the 
rack,  the  common  relief  to  anguish  is  not  allowed;  the  senses 
are  too  sharply  strung,  thus  happily  to  collapse  into  forget- 
fulness;  the  dreadful  inspiration  that  agony  kindles,  supports 
nature  while  it  consumes  it.  Madeline  passed,  without  a 
downward  glance,  by  the  lifeless  body  of  her  sister;  and 
walking  with  a  steady  step  to  Walter,  she  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  arm,  and  fixing  on  his  countenance  that  soft  clear  eye, 
which  was  now  lit  with  a  searching  and  preternatural  glare, 
and  seemed  to  pierce  into  his  soul,   she  said, — 

"  Walter,  do  I  hear  aright  ?  Am  I  awake  ?  Is  it  you  who 
accuse  Eugene  Aram,  —  your  Madeline's  betrothed  husband, 
—  Madeline,  whom  you  once  loved  ?     Of  what  ?     Of  crimes 


EUGENE   ARAM.  351 

which  death  alone  can  punish.  Away!  It  is  not  you, —  I 
know  it  is  not.  Say  that  I  am  mistaken, — that  I  am  mad,  if 
you  will.  Come,  Walter,  relieve  me;  let  me  not  abhor  the 
very  air  you  breathe ! " 

"  Will  no  one  have  mercy  on  me  ? "  cried  Walter,  rent  to 
the  heart,  and  covering  his  face  with  his  hands.  In  the  fire 
and  heat  of  vengeance  he  had  not  recked  of  tliis.  He  had 
only  thought  of  justice  to  a  father,  punishment  to  a  villain, 
rescue  for  a  credulous  girl.  The  woe,  the  horror  he  was  about 
to  inflict  on  all  he  most  loved;  this  had  not  struck  upon  him 
with  a  due  force  till  now! 

"  Mercy  —  ?/oic  talk  of  mercy !  I  knew  it  could  not  be  true !  " 
said  Madeline,  trying  to  pluck  her  cousin's  hand  from  his 
face;  "you  could  not  have  dreamed  of  Avrong  to  Eugene  — 
and  —  and  upon  this  day.  Say  we  have  erred,  or  that  you 
have  erred,  and  we  will  forgive  and  bless  you  even  now! " 

Aram  had  not  interfered  in  this  scene  ;  he  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  cousins,  not  uninterested  to  see  what  effect  Made- 
line's touching  words  might  produce  on  his  accuser.  Mean- 
while she  continued:  "Speak  to  me,  Walter,  dear  Walter, 
speak  to  me!  Are  you,  my  cousin,  my  playfellow,  —  are  you 
the  one  to  blight  our  hopes,  to  dash  our  joys,  to  bring  dread 
and  terror  into  a  home  so  lately  all  peace  and  sunshine, — 
5'our  own  home,  your  childhood's  home  ?  W^hat  have  you 
done  ?  What  have  you  dared  to  do  ?  Accuse  him  !  Of  what? 
Murder!  Speak,  speak.  Murder,  ha!  ha! — murder!  nay, 
not  so!  You  would  not  venture  to  come  here,  you  would  not 
let  me  take  your  hand,  you  would  not  look  us,  your  uncle, 
your  more  than  sisters,  in  the  face  if  you  could  nurse  in  your 
heart  this  lie, — this  black,   horrid  lie!  " 

Walter  withdrew  his  hands,  and  as  he  turned  his  face 
said, — 

"Let  him  prove  his  innocence.  Pray  God  he  do!  I  am 
not  his  accuser,  Madeline.  His  accusers  are  the  bones  of  my 
dead  father!  Save  these,  Heaven  alone  and  the  revealing 
earth  are  witness  against  him ! " 

"Your  father!  "  said  Madeline,  staggering  back, —  "my  lost 
uncle !     Nay,  now  I  know  indeed  what  a  shadow  has  appalled 


352  EUGENE  ARAM. 

us  all !  Did  you  know  my  uncle,  Eugene  ?  Did  you  ever  see 
Geoffrey  Lester  ?  " 

"Never,  as  I  believe,  so  help  me  God!"  said  Aram,  laying 
his  hand  on  his  heart.  "But  this  is  idle  now,"  as,  recollecting 
himself,  he  felt  that  the  case  had  gone  forth  from  Walter's 
hands,  and  that  appeal  to  him  had  become  vain.  "  Leave  us 
now,  dearest  Madeline,  my  beloved  wife  that  shall  be,  that 
is!  I  go  to  disprove  these  charges.  Perhaps  I  shall  return 
to-night.  Delay  not  my  acquittal,  even  from  doubt, — a  boy's 
doubt.     Come,  sirs." 

"0  Eugene!  Eugene!  "  cried  Madeline,  throwing  herself  on 
her  knees  before  him,  "do  not  order  me  to  leave  you  now, — 
now  in  the  hour  of  dread !  I  will  not.  Nay,  look  not  so !  I 
swear  I  will  not!  Father,  dear  father,  come  and  plead  for 
me, —  say  I  shall  go  with  you.  I  ask  nothing  more.  Do  not 
fear  for  my  nerves, —  cowardice  is  gone.  I  will  not  shame 
you,  I  will  not  play  the  woman.  I  know  what  is  due  to  one 
who  loves  him.  Try  me,  only  try  me.  Yovi  weep,  father, 
you  shake  your  head.  But  you,  Eugene,  —  you  have  not  the 
heart  to  deny  me  ?  Think  —  think  if  I  stayed  here  to  count 
the  moments  till  you  return,  my  very  senses  would  leave  me. 
What  do  I  ask  ?  But  to  go  with  you,  to  be  the  first  to  hail 
your  triumph!  Had  this  happened  two  hours  hence,  you 
could  not  have  said  me  nay, —  I  should  have  claimed  the  right 
to  be  with  you;  I  now  but  implore  the  blessing.  You  relent, 
you  relent;    1  see  it!  " 

"0  Heaven!"  exclaimed  Aram,  rising,  and  clasping  her  to 
his  breast,  and  wildly  kissing  her  face,  but  with  cold  and 
trembling  lips,  "this  is  indeed  a  bitter  hour;  let  me  not  sink 
beneath  it.  Yes,  Madeline,  ask  your  father  if  he  consents;  I 
hail  your  strengthening  presence  as  that  of  an  angel.  I  will 
not  be  the  one  to  sever  you  from  my  side." 

"You  are  right,  Eugene,"  said  Lester,  who  was  supporting 
Ellinor,  not  yet  recovered, —  "let  her  go  with  us;  it  is  but 
common  kindness  and  common  mercy." 

Madeline  uttered  a  cry  of  joy  (joy  even  at  such  a  moment!), 
and  clung  fast  to  Eugene's  arm,  as  if  for  assurance  that  they 
were  not  indeed  to  be  separated. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  353 

By  this  time  some  of  Lester's  servants,  who  had  from  a 
distance  followed  their  young  mistresses,  reached  the  spot. 
To  their  care  Lester  gave  the  still  scarce  reviving  Ellinor; 
and  then,  turning  round  with  a  severe  countenance  to  Walter, 
said,  "  Come,  sir,  your  rashness  has  done  sufficient  wrong  for 
the  present;  come  now,  and  see  how  soon  your  suspicions  will 
end  in  shame." 

"Justice,  and  blood  for  blood!"  said  Walter,  sternly;  but 
his  heart  felt  as  if  it  were  broken.  His  venerable  uncle's 
tears,  Madeline's  look  of  horror  as  she  turned  from  him,  Elli- 
nor all  lifeless,  and  he  not  daring  to  approach  her, —  this  was 
his  work !  He  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  hastened  into 
the  carriage  alone.  Lester,  Madeline,  and  Aram  followed  in 
the  other  vehicle;  and  the  two  officers  contented  themselves 
with  mounting  the  box,  certain  the  prisoner  would  attempt 
no  escape. 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE    JUSTICE. THE    DEPARTURE. THE     EQUANIMITY     OF     THE 

CORPORAL    IN    BEARING     THE     MISFORTUNES     OF     OTHER     PEO- 
PLE.—THE    examination;    ITS     RESULT. ARAm's     CONDUCT 

IN    PRISON. THE    ELASTICITY    OF    OUR    HUMAN    Ni^TURE. A 

VISIT      FROM      THE      EARL.  WALTEr's      DETERMINATION.  

MADELINE. 

Bear  me  to  prison,  where  I  am  committed. 

Measure  for  Measure. 

On  arriving  at  Sir 's,  a  disappointment,  for  which,  had 

they  previously  conversed  with  the  officers,  they  might  have 
been  prepared,  awaited  them.  The  fact  was  that  the  justice 
had  only  indorsed  the  warrant  sent  from  Yorkshire ;  and  after 
a  very  short  colloquy,  in  which  he  expressed  his  regret  at  the 
circumstance,  his  conviction  that  the  charge  would  be  dis- 
proved, and  a  few  other  courteous  commonplaces,  he  gave 
Aram  to  understand  that  the  matter  now  did  not  rest  with 

23 


354  EUGENE  ARAM. 

him,  but  that  it  was  to  Yorkshire  that  the  officers  were  bound, 
and  before  Mr.  Thornton,  a  magistrate  of  that  county,  that 
the  examination  Avas  to  take  place.  "All  I  can  do,"  said  the 
magistrate,  "  I  have  already  done ;  but  I  wished  for  an  oppor- 
tunity of  informing  you  of  it.  I  have  written  to  my  brother 
justice  at  full  length  respecting  your  high  character,  and 
treating  the  habits  and  rectitude  of  your  life  alone  as  a  suffi- 
cient refutation  of  so  monstrous  a  charge." 

Eor  the  first  time  a  visible  embarrassment  came  over  the  firm 
nerves  of  the  prisoner:  he  seemed  to  look  with  great  uneasi- 
ness at  the  prospect  of  this  long  and  dreary  journey,  and  for 
such  an  end.  Perhaps  the  very  notion  of  returning  as  a  sus- 
pected criminal  to  that  part  of  the  country  where  a  portion  of 
his  youth  had  been  passed,  was  sufficient  to  disquiet  and  deject 
him.  All  this  while  his  poor  Madeline  seemed  actuated  by  a 
spirit  beyond  herself;  she  would  not  be  separated  from  his 
side,  she  held  his  hand  in  hers,  she  whispered  comfort  and 
courage  at  the  very  moment  when  her  own  heart  most  sank. 
The  magistrate  wiped  his  eyes  when  he  saw  a  creature  so 
young,  so  beautiful,  in  circumstances  so  fearful,  and  bearing 
up  with  an  energy  so  little  to  be  expected  from  her  years  and 
delicate  appearance.  Aram  said  but  little;  he  covered  his 
face  with  his  right  hand  for  a  few  moments,  as  if  to  hide  a 
passing  emotion,  a  sudden  weakness.  When  he  removed  it, 
all  vestige  of  color  had  died  away;  his  face  was  pale  as  that 
of  one  who  had  risen  from  the  grave,  but  it  was  settled  and 
composed. 

"It  is  a  hard  pang,  sir,"  said  he,  with  a  faint  smile;  "so 
many  miles,  so  many  days,  so  long  a  deferment  of  knowing 
the  best  or  preparing  to  meet  the  worst.  But  be  it  so!  I 
thank  you,  sir,  I  thank  you  all,  —  Lester,  Madeline,  for  your 
kindness;  you  two  must  now  leave  me:  the  brand  is  on  my 
name, —  the  suspected  man  is  no  fit  object  for  love  or  friend- 
ship !     Farewell ! " 

"We  go  with  you!"  said  Madeline,  firmly  and  in  a  very 
low  voice. 

Aram's  eye  sparkled,  but  he  waved  his  hand  impatiently. 

"We  go  with  you,  my  friend!  "  repeated  Lester. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  355 

And  so,  indeed,  not  to  dwell  long  on  a  painful  scene,  it  was 
finally  settled.  Lester  and  his  two  daughters  that  evening 
followed  Aram  to  the  dark  and  fatal  bourn  to  which  he  was 
bound. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Walter,  seizing  his  uncle's  hand, 
whispered, — 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  be  rash  in  your  friendship! 
You  have  not  yet  learned  all.  I  tell  you  that  there  can  be  no 
doubt  of  his  guilt!  Remember,  it  is  a  brother  for  whom  you 
mourn!     Will  you  countenance  his  murderer?" 

Lester,  despite  himself,  was  struck  by  the  earnestness  with 
which  his  nephew  spoke;  but  the  impression  died  away  as 
the  words  ceased.  So  strong  and  deep  had  been  the  fascina- 
tion which  Eugene  Aram  had  exercised  over  the  hearts  of  all 
once  drawn  within  the  near  circle  of  his  attraction,  that  had 
the  charge  of  murder  been  made  against  himself,  Lester  could 
not  have  repelled  it  with  a  more  entire  conviction  of  the  inno- 
cence of  the  accused.  Still,  however,  the  deep  sincerity  of 
his  nephew's  manner  in  some  measure  served  to  soften  his 
resentment  towards  him. 

"Xo,  no,  boy!  "  said  he,  drawing  away  his  hand;  "  Rowland 
Lester  is  not  the  one  to  desert  a  friend  m  the  day  of  darkness 
and  the  hour  of  need.  Be  silent,  I  say!  My  brother,  my 
poor  brother,  you  tell  me,  has  been  murdered ;  I  will  see  jus- 
tice done  to  him.  But  Aram!  Fie!  fie!  it  is  a  name  that 
would  whisper  falsehood  to  the  loudest  accusation.  Go, 
Walter,  go!  I  do  not  blame  you, — you  may  be  right;  a  mur- 
dered father  is  a  dread  and  awful  memory  to  a  son!  What 
wonder  that  the  thought  warps  your  judgment?  But  go! 
Eugene  was  to  me  both  a  guide  and  a  blessing,  —  a  father  in 
wisdom,  a  son  in  love.  I  cannot  look  on  his  accuser's  face 
without  anguish.     Go ;  we  shall  meet  again.     Now  go !  " 

"Enough,  sir!"  said  Walter,  partly  in  anger,  partly  in 
sorrow.     "Time  be  the  judge  between  us  all!" 

With  those  words  he  turned  from  the  house  and  proceeded 
on  foot  towards  a  cottage  half-way  between  Grassdale  and  the 
magistrate's  house,  at  which,  previous  to  his  return  to  the 
former  place,  he  had  prudently  left  the  corporal,  not  willing 


356  EUGENE  ARAM. 

to  trust  to  that  person's  discretion  as  to  the  tales  and  scandal 
that  he  might  propagate  throughout  the  village  on  a  matter  so 
painful  and  so  dark. 

Let  the  world  wag  as  it  will,  there  are  some  tempers  which 
its  vicissitudes  never  reach.  Nothing  makes  a  picture  of 
distress  more  sad  than  the  portrait  of  some  individual  sitting 
indifferently  looking  on  in  the  background.  This  was  a  secret 
Hogarth  knew  well.  Mark  his  death-bed  scenes :  Poverty  and 
Vice  worked  up  into  horror,  and  the  physicians  in  the  corner 
wrangling  for  the  fee;  or  the  child  playing  with  the  coffin; 
or  the  nurse  filching  what  fortune,  harsh,  yet  less  harsh  than 
humanity,  might  have  left.  In  the  melancholy  depth  of  hu- 
mor that  steeps  both  our  fancy  and  our  heart  in  the  immortal 
romance  of  Cervantes  (for  how  profoundly  melancholy  is  it 
to  be  compelled  by  one  gallant  folly  to  laugh  at  all  that  is 
gentle  and  brave  and  wise  and  generous),  nothing  grates  on 
us  more  than  when  —  last  scene  of  all  —  the  poor  knight  lies 
dead,  his  exploits  forever  over,  forever  dumb  his  eloquent  dis- 
courses,—  than  when,  I  say,  we  are  told  that,  despite  of  his 
grief,  even  little  Sancho  did  not  eat  or  drink  the  less.  These 
touches  open  to  us  the  real  world,  it  is  true ;  but  it  is  not  the 
best  part  of  it.  Certain  it  was  that  when  Walter,  full  of  con- 
tending emotions  at  all  he  had  witnessed, —  harassed,  tor- 
tured, yet  also  elevated  by  his  feelings, —  stopped  opposite 
the  cottage  door  and  saw  there  the  corporal  sitting  comforta- 
bly in  the  porch,  his  vile  modicum  Sahini  before  him,  his  pipe 
in  his  mouth,  and  a  complacent  expression  of  satisfaction 
diffusing  itself  over  features  which  shrewdness  and  selfishness 
had  marked  for  their  own, —  certain  it  was  that  at  this  sight 
Walter  experienced  a  more  displeasing  revulsion  of  feeling,  a 
more  entire  conviction  of  sadness,  a  more  consummate  disgust 
of  this  weary  world  and  the  motley  masquers  that  walk  therein 
than  all  the  tragic  scenes  he  had  just  witnessed  had  produced 
within  him, 

'And  well,  sir,"  said  the  corporal,  sloAvly  rising,  "how  did 
it  go  off  ?  Wasn't  the  villain  'bash'd  to  the  dust  ?  You  've 
nabbed  him  safe,  I  hope  ?  " 

"Silence!"  said  Walter,   sternly;   "prepare  for  our  depar 


EUGENE   ARAM.  357 

ture.  The  chaise  will  be  here  forthwith;  we  return  to  York- 
shire this  day.     Ask  me  no  more  now." 

"  A  well,  baugh !  "  said  the  corporal. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Walter  walked  to  and  fro  the 
road  before  the  cottage.  The  chaise  arrived  ;  the  luggage 
was  put  m.  Walter's  foot  was  on  the  step;  but  before  the 
corporal  mounted  the  rumbling  dickey,  that  invaluable  domes- 
tic hemmed  thrice. 

"And  had  you  time,  sir,  to  think  of  poor  Jacob,  and  slip  in 
a  word  to  your  uncle  about  the  bit  'tato  ground  ?  " 

We  pass  over  the  space  of  time,  short  in  fact,  long  in  suffer- 
ing, that  elapsed  till  the  prisoner  and  his  companions  reached 
Knaresborough.  Aram's  conduct  during  this  time  was  not 
only  calm,  but  cheerful.  The  stoical  doctrines  he  had  affected 
through  life  he  on  this  trying  interval  called  into  remarkable 
exertion.  He  it  was  who  now  supported  the  spirits  of  his 
mistress  and  his  friend;  and  though  he  no  longer  pretended 
to  be  sanguine  of  acquittal,  though  again  and  again  he  urged 
upon  them  the  gloomy  fact,  first  how  improbable  it  was  that 
this  course  had  been  entered  into  against  him  without  strong 
presumption  of  guilt,  and  secondly  how  little  less  improbable 
it  was  that  at  that  distance  of  time  he  should  be  able  to  pro- 
cure evidence,  or  remember  circumstances  sufficient  on  the 
instant  to  set  aside  such  presumption, —  he  yet  dwelt  partly 
on  the  hope  of  ulthnate  proof  of  his  innocence,  and  still  more 
strongly  on  the  firmness  of  his  own  mind  to  bear,  without 
shrinking,  even  the  hardest  fate. 

"Do  not,"  he  said  to  Lester,  "do  not  look  on  these  trials  of 
life  only  with  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Reflect  how  poor  and 
minute  a  segment,  in  the  vast  circle  of  eternity,  existence  is 
at  the  best.  Its  sorrow  and  its  shame  are  but  moments.  Al- 
ways in  my  brightest  and  youngest  hours  I  have  wrapped  my 
heart  in  the  contemplation  of  an  august  futurity, — 

" '  The  soul,  secure  in  its  existence,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point.' 

Were  it  not  for  Madeline's  dear  sake,  I  should  long  since  have 


358  EUGENE  ARAM. 

been  over-weary  of  the  world.  As  it  is,  the  sooner,  even  by 
a  violent  and  unjust  fate,  we  leave  a  path  begirt  with  snares 
below  and  tempests  above,  the  happier  for  that  soul  which 
looks  to  its  lot  in  this  earth  as  the  least  part  of  its  appointed 
doom. " 

In  discourses  like  this,  which  the  nature  of  his  eloquence 
was  peculiarly  calculated  to  render  solemn  and  impressive, 
Aram  strove  to  prepare  his  friends  for  the  worst,  and  perhaps 
to  cheat,  or  to  steel,  himself.  Ever  as  he  spoke  thus,  Lester 
or  Ellinor  broke  on  him  with  impatient  remonstrance ;  but  Mad- 
eline, as  if  imbued  with  a  deeper  and  more  mournful  penetra- 
tion into  the  future,  listened  in  tearless  and  breathless  atten- 
tion. She  gazed  upon  him  with  a  look  that  shared  the  thought 
he  expressed,  though  it  read  not  (yet  she  dreamed  so)  the 
heart  from  which  it  came.  In  the  words  of  that  beautiful 
poet  to  whose  true  nature,  so  full  of  unuttered  tenderness,  so 
fraught  with  the  rich  nobility  of  love,  we  have  begun  slowly 
to  awaken, — 

"Her  lip  was  silent,  scarcely  beat  her  heart ; 
Her  eye  alone  proclaimed  '  We  will  not  part ! ' 
Thy  '  hope  '  may  perish,  or  thy  friends  may  flee; 
Farewell  to  life,  but  not  adieu  to  thee !  "  ^ 

They  arrived  at  noon  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Thornton,  and 
Aram  imderwent  his  examination.  Though  he  denied  most 
of  the  particulars  in  Houseman's  evidence,  and  expressly  the 
charge  of  murder,  his  commitment  was  made  out;  and  that 
day  he  was  removed  by  the  officers  (Barker  and  Moor,  who 
had  arrested  him  at  Grassdale)  to  York  Castle,  to  await  his 
trial  at  the  assizes. 

The  sensation  which  this  extraordinary  event  created 
throughout  the  country  was  wholly  unequalled.  Not  only 
in  Yorkshire  and  the  county  in  which  he  had  of  late  resided, 
where  his  personal  habits  were  known,  but  even  in  the  metrop- 
olis, and  amongst  men  of  all  classes  in  England,  it  appears  to 
have  caused  one  mingled  feeling  of  astonishment,  horror,  and 
incredulity,  which  in  our  times  has  no  parallel  in  any  crim- 

1  Lara. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  359 

inal  prosecution.  The  peculiar  attributes  of  tlie  prisoner,  his 
genius,  his  learning,  his  moral  life,  the  interest  that  by  stu- 
dents had  been  for  years  attached  to  his  name,  his  approach- 
ing marriage,  the  length  of  time  that  had  elapsed  since  the 
crime  had  been  committed,  the  singular  and  abrupt  manner, 
the  wild  and  legendary  spot  in  which  the  skeleton  of  the  lost 
man  had  been  discovered,  the  imperfect  rumors,  the  dark  and 
suspicious  evidence, —  all  combined  to  make  a  tale  of  such 
marvellous  incident,  and  breeding  such  endless  conjecture, 
that  we  cannot  wonder  to  find  it  afterwards  received  a  place, 
not  only  in  the  temporary  chronicles,  but  even  in  the  perma- 
nent histories  of  the  period. 

Previous  to  Walter's  departure  from  Knaresborough  to 
Grassdale,  and  immediately  subsequent  to  the  discovery  at 
St.  Eobert's  Cave,  the  coroner's  inquest  had  been  held  upon 
the  bones  so  mysteriously  and  suddenly  brought  to  light.  Up- 
on the  witness  of  the  old  woman  at  whose  house  Aram  had 
lodged,  and  upon  that  of  Houseman,  aided  by  some  circum- 
stantial and  less  weighty  evidence,  had  been  issued  that  war- 
rant on  which  we  have  seen  the  prisoner  apprehended. 

With  most  men  there  was  an  intimate  and  indignant  per- 
suasion of  Aram's  innocence;  and  at  this  day,  in  the  county 
where  he  last  resided,  there  still  lingers  the  same  belief. 
Firm  as  his  gospel  faith,  that  conviction  rested  in  the  mind 
of  the  worthy  Lester ;  and  he  sought,  by  every  means  he  could 
devise,  to  soothe  and  cheer  the  confinement  of  his  friend.  In 
prison,  however  (indeed,  after  his  examination,  after  Aram 
had  made  himself  thoroughly  acquainted  with  all  the  circum- 
stantial evidence  which  identified  Clarke  with  Geoffrey  Les- 
ter,—  a  story  that  till  then  he  had  persuaded  himself  wholly 
to  disbelieve),  a  change,  which  in  the  presence  of  Madeline 
or  her  father  he  vainly  attempted  wholly  to  conceal,  and  to 
which,  when  alone,  he  surrendered  himself  with  a  gloomy 
abstraction,  came  over  his  mood,  and  dashed  him  from  the 
lofty  height  of  philosophy  from  which  he  had  before  looked 
down  on  the  peril  and  the  ills  below. 

Sometimes  he  would  gaze  on  Lester  with  a  strange  and 
glassy  eye,  and  mutter  inaudibly  to  himself,  as  if  unaware  of 


360  EUGENE  ARAM. 

the  old  man's  presence;  at  otliers  lie  would  shrink  from  Les- 
ter's proffered  hand,  and  start  abruptly  from  his  professions  of 
unaltered,  unalterable  regard;  sometimes  he  would  sit  silently, 
and  with  a  changeless  and  stony  countenance  look  upon  Mad- 
eline as  she  now  spoke  in  that  exalted  tone  of  consolation 
which  had  passed  away  from  himself;  and  when  she  had  done, 
instead  of  replying  to  her  speech,  he  would  say  abruptly,  "Ay, 
at  the  worst  you  love  me,  then, —  love  me  better  than  any  one 
on  earth.     Say  that,  Madeline;  again  say  that!" 

And  Madeline's  trembling  lips  obeyed  the  demand. 

"Yes,"  he  would  renew,  "this  man  whom  they  accuse  me 
of  murdering,  this  —  your  uncle  —  him  you  never  saw  since 
you  were  an  infant,  a  mere  infant, —  him  you  could  not  love! 
What  was  he  to  you  ?  Yet  it  is  dreadful  to  think  of,  dread- 
ful, dreadful!"  And  then  again  his  voice  ceased;  but  his 
lips  moved  convulsively,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  speak  mean- 
ings that  defied  words.  These  alterations  in  his  bearing, 
which  belied  his  steady  and  resolute  character,  astonished 
and  dejected  both  Madeline  and  her  father.  Sometimes  they 
thought  that  his  situation  had  shaken  his  reason,  or  that  the 
horrible  suspicion  of  having  murdered  the  uncle  of  his  in- 
tended wife  made  him  look  upon  themselves  with  a  secret 
shudder,  and  that  they  were  mingled  up  in  his  mind  by  no 
unnatural,  though  unjust  confusion,  with  the  causes  of  his 
present  awful  and  uncertain  state.  With  the  generality  of 
the  world  these  two  tender  friends  believed  Houseman  the 
sole  and  real  murderer,  and  fancied  his  charge  against  Aram 
was  but  the  last  expedient  of  a  villain  to  waxd  punishment 
from  himself  by  imputing  crime  to  another.  Naturally,  then, 
they  frequently  sought  to  turn  the  conversation  upon  House- 
man and  on  the  different  circumstances  that  had  brought  him 
acquainted  with  Aram ;  but  on  this  ground  the  prisoner  seemed 
morbidly  sensitive,  and  averse  to  detailed  discussion.  His 
narration,  however,  such  as  it  was,  threw  much  light  upon 
certain  matters  on  which  Madeline  and  Lester  were  before 
anxious  and  inquisitive. 

"Houseman  is,  in  all  ways,"  said  he,  with  great  and  bitter 
vehemence,  "unredeemed,  and  beyond  the  calculations  of  an 


EUGENE   ARAM.  361 

ordinary  wickedness ;  Ave  knew  each  other  from  our  relation- 
ship, but  seklom  met,  and  still  more  rarely  held  long  inter- 
course together.  After  we  separated,  when  I  left  Knares- 
borough,  we  did  not  meet  for  years.  He  sought  me  at 
Grassdale:  he  was  poor,  and  implored  assistance;  I  gave  him 
all  within  my  power.  He  sought  me  again, — nay,  more  than 
once  again;  and  finding  me  justly  averse  to  yielding  to  his 
extortionate  demands,  he  then  broached  the  purpose  he  has 
now  effected.  He  threatened  —  you  hear  me,  you  under- 
stand ?  —  he  threatened  me  with  this  charge, — the  murder  of 
Daniel  Clarke :  by  that  name  alone  I  knew  the  deceased.  The 
menace  and  the  known  villany  of  the  man  agitated  me  beyond 
expression.  What  was  I  ?  A  being  who  lived  without  the 
world,  who  knew  not  its  ways,  who  desired  only  rest!  The 
menace  haunted  me, —  almost  maddened!  Your  nephew  has 
told  you,  you  say,  of  broken  words,  of  escaping  emotions, 
which  he  has  noted,  even  to  suspicion,  in  me ;  you  now  behold 
the  cause!  Was  it  not  sufficient?  My  life  —  nay,  more  — 
my  fame,  my  marriage,  Madeline's  peace  of  mind,  all  de- 
pended on  the  uncertain  fury  or  craft  of  a  wretch  like  this ! 
The  idea  was  with  me  night  and  day;  to  avoid  it  I  resolved 
on  a  sacrifice.  You  may  blame  me, —  I  was  weak;  yet  I 
thought  then  not  unwise.  To  avoid  it,  I  say,  I  offered  to 
bribe  this  man  to  leave  the  country.  I  sold  my  pittance  to 
oblige  him  to  it.  I  bound  him  thereto  by  the  strongest  ties. 
Nay,  so  disinterestedly,  so  truly  did  I  love  Madeline  that  I 
Avould  not  wed  while  I  thought  this  danger  could  burst  upon 
me.  1  believed  that,  before  my  marriage  day,  Houseman  had 
left  the  country.  It  was  not  so;  Fate  ordered  otherwise.  It 
seems  that  Houseman  came  to  Knaresborough  to  see  his 
daughter;  that  suspicion,  by  a  sudden  train  of  events,  fell  on 
him, —  perhaps  justly;  to  screen  himself  he  has  sacrificed  me. 
The  tale  seems  plausible :  perhaps  the  accuser  may  triumph. 
But,  Madeline,  you  now  may  account  for  much  that  may  have 
perplexed  you  before.  Let  me  remember  —  Ay,  ay,  I  have 
dropped  mysterious  words,  have  I  not  ?  —  have  I  not  ?  Own- 
ing that  danger  was  around  me,  OAvning  that  a  Avild  and  ter- 
rific secret  was  heavy  at  my  breast,  —  nay,  once,  walking  with 


362  EUGENE  ARAM. 

you  the  evening  before  —  before  the  fatal  day,  I  said  that  we 
must  prepare  to  seek  some  yet  more  secluded  spot,  some  deeper 
retirement;  for  despite  my  precautions,  despite  the  supposed 
absence  of  Houseman  from  the  country  itself,  a  fevered  and 
restless  presentiment  would  at  some  times  intrude  itself  on 
me.  All  this  is  now  accounted  for,  is  it  not,  Madeline  ? 
Speak,   speak!" 

"  All,  love,  all !     Why  do  you  look  on  me  with  that  search- 
ing eye,  that  frowning  brow  ?  " 

"Did  I  ?  No,  no,  I  have  no  frown  for  you.  But  peace;  I 
am  not  what  I  ought  to  be  through  this  ordeal." 

The  above  narration  of  Aram  did  indeed  account  to  Made- 
line for  much  that  had  till  then  remained  unexplained,  —  the 
appearance  of  Houseman  at  Grassdale;  the  meeting  between 
him  and  Aram  on  the  evening  she  walked  with  the  latter  and 
questioned  him  of  his  ill-boding  visitor;  the  frequent  abstrac- 
tion and  muttered  hints  of  her  lover;  and,  as  he  had  said,  his 
last  declaration  of  the  possible  necessity  of  leaving  Grassdale. 
Nor  was  it  improbable,  though  it  was  rather  in  accordance 
with  the  uuAvorldly  habits  than  with  the  haughty  character  of 
Aram,  that  he  should  seek,  circumstanced  as  he  was,  to  si- 
lence even  the  false  accuser  of  a  plausible  tale  that  might  well 
strike  horror  and  bewilderment  into  a  man  much  more,  to  all 
seeming,  fitted  to  grapple  with  the  hard  and  coarse  realities 
of  life  than  the  moody  and  secluded  scholar.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  though  Lester  deplored,  he  did  not  blame  that  circum- 
stance, which,  after  all,  had  not  transpired,  nor  seemed  likely 
to  transpire;  and  he  attributed  the  prisoner's  aversion  to  enter 
further  on  the  matter  to  the  natural  dislike  of  so  proud  a  man 
to  refer  to  his  own  weakness,  and  to  dwell  upon  the  manner 
in  which,  in  spite  of  that  weakness,  he  had  been  duped.  This 
story  Lester  retailed  to  Walter;  and  it  contributed  to  throw 
a  damp  and  uncertainty  over  those  mixed  and  unquiet  feelings 
with  which  the  latter  waited  for  the  coming  trial.  There 
were  many  moments  when  the  young  man  was  tempted  to 
regret  that  Aram  had  not  escaped  a  trial  which,  if  he  were 
proved  guilty,  would  forever  blast  the  happiness  of  his  family, 
and  which  might,  notwithstanding  such  a  verdict,  leave  on 


EUGENE   ARAM.  363 

Walter's  own  mind  an  impression  of  the  prisoner's  innocence, 
and  an  uneasy  consciousness  that  he,  through  his  investiga- 
tions,  had  brought  him  to  that  doom, 

Walter  remained  in  Yorkshire,  seeing  little  of  his  famil}', 
—  of  none,  indeed,  but  Lester.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that 
Madeline  would  see  him;  and  once  only  he  caught  the  tearful 
eyes  of  Ellinor  as  she  retreated  from  the  room  he  entered, — 
and  those  eyes  beamed  kindness  and  pity,  but  something  also 
of  reproach. 

Time  passed  slowly  and  witheringly  on.  A  man  of  the 
name  of  Terry  having  been  included  in  the  suspicion,  and  in- 
deed committed,  it  appeared  that  the  prosecutor  could  not 
procure  witnesses  by  the  customary  time,  and  the  trial  was 
postponed  till  the  next  assizes.  As  this  man  was,  however, 
never  brought  up  to  trial,  and  appears  no  more,  we  have  said 
nothing  of  him  in  our  narrative  until  he  thus  became  the  in- 
strument of  a  delay  in  the  fate  of  Eugene  Aram.  Time  passed 
on, — winter,  spring,  were  gone;  and  the  glory  and  gloss  of 
summer  were  now  lavished  over  the  happy  earth.  In  some 
measure  the  usual  calmness  of  his  demeanor  had  returned  to 
Aram;  he  had  mastered  those  moody  fits  we  have  referred  to, 
which  had  so  afflicted  his  affectionate  visitors,  and  he  now 
seemed  to  prepare  and  buoy  himself  up  against  that  awful 
ordeal  of  life  and  death  which  he  was  about  soon  to  pass. 
Yet  he,  the  hermit  of  Nature,  who  — 

"  Each  little  herb 
That  grows  on  mouutaiu  bleak,  or  tangled  forest. 
Had  learut  to  name,"  ^  — 

he  could  not  feel,  even  through  the  bars  and  checks  of  a  prison, 
the  soft  summer  air,  "the  witchery  of  the  soft  blue  sky;" 
he  could  not  see  the  leaves  bud  forth,  and  mellow  into  their 
darker  verdure;  he  could  not  hear  the  songs  of  the  many- 
voiced  birds,  or  listen  to  the  dancing  rain,  calling  up  beauty 
where  it  fell;  or  mark  at  night,  through  his  high  and  narrow 
casement,  the  stars  aloof,  and  the  sweet  moon  pouring  in  her 
light,  like  God's  pardon,  even  through  the  dungeon-gloom  and 

1  Remorse,  by  S.  T.  Coleridge. 


3G4  EUGENE  ARAM. 

the  desolate  scenes  where  Mortality  struggles  with  Despair, 
—  he  could  not  catch,  obstructed  as  they  were,  these,  the 
benigner  influences  of  earth,  and  not  sicken  and  pant  for  his 
old  and  full  communion  with  their  ministry  and  presence. 
Sometimes  all  around  him  was  forgotten, — the  harsh  cell,  the 
cheerless  solitude,  the  approaching  trial,  the  boding  fear,  the 
darkened  hope,  even  the  spectre  of  a  troubled  and  fierce  re- 
membrance,—  all  was  forgotten,  and  his  spirit  was  abroad, 
and  his  step  upon  the  movmtain  top  once  more. 

In  our  estimate  of  the  ills  of  life  we  never  sufficiently  take 
into  our  consideration  the  wonderful  elasticity  of  our  moral 
frame,  the  unlooked-for,  the  startling  facility  with  which  the 
human  mind  accommodates  itself  to  all  change  of  circum- 
stance, making  an  object  and  even  a  joy  from  the  hardest  and 
seemingly  the  least  redeemed  conditions  of  fate.  The  man 
who  watched  the  spider  in  his  cell  may  have  taken,  at  least, 
as  much  interest  in  the  watch  as  when  engaged  in  the  most 
ardent  and  ambitious  objects  of  his  former  life.  Let  any  man 
look  over  his  past  career;  let  him  recall,  not  moments,  not 
hours  of  agony, —  for  to  them  Custom  lends  not  her  blessed 
magic,  —  but  let  him  single  out  some  lengthened  period  of  phy- 
sical or  moral  endurance:  in  hastily  reverting  to  it,  it  may 
seem  at  first,  I  grant,  altogether  wretched, —  a  series  of  days 
marked  with  the  black  stone,  the  clouds  without  a  star.  But 
let  him  look  more  closely :  it  was  not  so  during  the  time  of 
suffering;  a  thousand  little  things,  in  the  bustle  of  life  dor- 
mant and  unheeded,  then  started  forth  into  notice  and  became 
to  him  objects  of  interest  or  diversion;  the  dreary  present, 
once  made  familiar,  glided  away  from  him,  not  less  than  if  it 
had  been  all  happiness;  his  mind  dwelt  not  on  the  dull  inter- 
vals, but  the  stepping-stone  it  had  created  and  placed  at  each; 
and  by  that  moral  dreaming  which  forever  goes  on  within 
man's  secret  heart,  he  lived  as  little  in  the  immediate  world 
before  him  as  in  the  most  sanguine  period  of  his  youth,  or 
the  most  scheming  of  his  maturity. 

So  wonderful  in  equalizing  all  states  and  all  times  in  the 
varying  tide  of  life  are  these  two  rulers,  yet  levellers  of  man- 
kind, Hope  and  Custom,  that  the  very  idea  of  an  eternal  pun- 


EUGENE  ARAM.  365 

isliment  includes  that  of  an  utter  alteration  of  the  whole 
mechanism  of  the  soul  in  its  human  state  j  and  no  effort  of  an 
imagination,  assisted  by  past  experience,  can  conceive  a  state 
of  torture  which  Custom  can  never  blunt,  and  from  which  the 
chamless  and  immaterial  spirit  can  never  be  beguiled  into  even 
a  momentary  escape. 

Among  the  very  few  persons  admitted  to  Aram's  solitude 

was  Lord .     That  nobleman  was  staying,  on  a  visit,  with 

a  relation  of  his  in  the  neighborhood;  and  he  seized,  with  an 
excited  and  mournful  avidity,  the  opportunity  thus  afforded 
him  of  seeing  once  more  a  character  that  had  so  often  forced 
itself  on  his  speculation  and  surprise.  He  came  to  offer,  not 
condolence,  but  respect, —  seiwices  at  such  a  moment  no  indi- 
vidual could  render;  he  gave,  however,  what  was  within  his 
power, —  advice,  —  and  pointed  out  to  Aram  the  best  counsel 
to  engage,  and  the  best  method  of  previous  inquiry  into  par- 
ticulars yet  unexplored.  He  was  astonished  to  find  Aram 
indifferent  on  these  points,  so  important.  The  prisoner,  it 
would  seem,  had  even  then  resolved  on  being  his  own  coun- 
sel and  conducting  his  own  cause;  the  event  proved  that  he 
did  not  rely  in  vain  on  the  power  of  his  own  eloquence  and 
sagacity,  though  he  might  on  their  result.  As  to  the  rest,  he 
spoke  with  impatience,  and  the  petulance  of  a  wronged  man. 
"For  the  idle  rumors  of  the  world  I  do  not  care,"  said  he; 
"  let  them  condemn  or  acquit  me  as  they  will.  For  my  life,  I 
might  be  willing,  indeed,  that  it  were  spared, —  I  trust  it  may 
be-,  if  not,  I  can  stand  face  to  face  with  Death.  I  have  now 
looked  on  him  within  these  walls  long  enough  to  have  grown 
familiar  with  his  terrors.  But  enough  of  me.  Tell  me,  my 
lord,  something  of  the  world  without, —  I  have  grown  eager 
about  it  at  last.  I  have  been  now  so  condemned  to  feed  upon 
myself  tliat  I  liave  become  surfeited  with  the  diet;"  and  it 
was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  earl  drew  Aram  back  to 
speak  of  himself.  He  did  so,  even  when  compelled  to  it,  with 
so  much  qualification  and  reserve,  mixed  with  some  evident 
anger  at  the  thought  of  being  sifted  and  examined,  that  his 
visitor  was  forced  finally  to  drop  the  subject;  and  not  liking, 
indeed  not  able,  at  such  a  time,  to  converse  on  more  indiffer- 


366  EUGENE  ARAM. 

ent  themes,  the  last  interview  he  ever  had  with  Aram  ter- 
minated much  more  abruptly  than  he  had  meant  it.  His 
opinion  of  the  prisoner  was  not,  however,  shaken  in  the  least. 
I  have  seen  a  letter  of  his  to  a  celebrated  personage  of  the 
day,  in  which,  mentioning  this  interview,  he  concludes  with 
saying:  "In  short,  there  is  so  much  real  dignity  about  the 
man  that  adverse  circumstances  increase  it  tenfold.  Of  his 
innocence  I  have  not  the  remotest  doubt;  but  if  he  persist 
in  being  his  own  counsel  I  tremble  for  the  result;  you  know, 
in  such  cases,  how  much  more  valuable  is  practice  than  gen- 
ius. But  the  judge,  you  will  say,  is  in  criminal  causes  the 
prisoner's  counsel :  God  grant  he  may  here  prove  a  successful 
one !  I  repeat,  were  Aram  condemned  by  five  hundred  juries, 
I  could  not  believe  him  guilty.  No,  the  very  essence  of  all 
human  probabilities  is  against  it." 

The  earl  afterwards  saw  and  conversed  with  Walter.  He 
was  much  struck  with  the  conduct  of  the  young  Lester,  and 
much  impressed  with  compassion  for  a  situation  so  harassing 
and  unhappy. 

"  Whatever  be  the  result  of  the  trial, "  said  Walter,  "  I  shall 
leave  the  country  the  moment  it  is  finally  over.  If  the  pris- 
oner be  condemned,  there  is  no  hearth  for  me  in  my  uncle's 
home;  if  not,  my  suspicions  may  still  remain,  and  the  sight 
of  each  other  be  an  equal  bane  to  the  accused  and  to  myself. 
A  voluntary  exile  and  a  life  that  may  lead  to  forgetfulness 
are  all  that  I  covet.  I  now  find  in  my  own  person,"  he  added, 
with  a  faint  smile,  "how  deeply  Shakspeare  had  read  the 
mysteries  of  men's  conduct.  Hamlet,  we  are  told,  was  nat- 
urally full  of  fire  and  action.  One  dark  discovery  quells  his 
spirit,  unstrings  his  heart,  and  stales  to  him  forever  the  uses 
of  the  world.  I  now  comprehend  the  change.  It  is  bodied 
forth  even  in  the  humblest  individual  who  is  met  by  a  similar 
fate, —  even  in  myself." 

"Ay,"  said  the  earl,  "I  do  indeed  remember  you  a  wild, 
impetuous,  headstrong  youth.  I  scarcely  recognize  your  very 
appearance.  The  elastic  spring  has  left  your  step,  there 
seems  a  fixed  furrow  in  your  brow.  These  clouds  of  life  are 
indeed  no  summer  vapor,  darkening   one  moment,  and  gone 


EUGENE   ARAM.  367 

the  next.  But,  my  young  friend,  let  us  hope  the  best.  I 
firmly  believe  in  Aram's  innocence,  firmly ;  more  rootedly  tliau 
I  can  express.  The  real  criminal  will  appear  on  the  trial. 
All  bitterness  between  you  and  Aram  must  cease  at  his  ac- 
quittal ;  you  will  be  anxious  to  repair  to  him  the  injustice  of 
a  natural  suspicion,  and  he  seems  not  one  who  could  long 
retain  malice.     All  will  be  well,   believe  me." 

"  God  grant  it !  "  said  Walter,  sighing  deeply. 

"But  at  the  Avorst,"  continued  the  earl,  pressing  his  hand 
in  parting,  "  if  you  should  persist  in  your  resolution  to  leave 
the  country,  Avrite  to  me,  and  I  can  furnish  you  with  an  hon- 
orable and  stirring  occasion  for  doing  so.     Farewell !  " 

While  time  was  thus  advancing  towards  the  fatal  day,  it 
was  graving  deep  ravages  within  the  pure  breast  of  Madeline 
Lester.  She  had  borne  up,  as  we  have  seen,  for  some  time 
against  the  sudden  blow  that  had  shivered  her  young  hopes 
and  separated  her  by  so  awful  a  chasm  from  the  side  of  Aram; 
but  as  week  after  week,  month  after  month  rolled  on,  and  he 
still  lay  in  prison,  and  the  horrible  suspense  of  ignominy  and 
death  still  hung  over  her,  then  gradually  her  courage  began 
to  fail  and  her  heart  to  sink.  Of  all  the  conditions  to  which 
the  heart  is  subject,  suspense  is  the  one  that  most  gnaws  and 
cankers  into  the  frame.  One  little  month  of  that  suspense, 
when  it  involves  death,  we  are  told,  in  a  very  remarkable 
work  lately  published  by  an  eye-witness,^  is  sufficient  to 
plough  fixed  lines  and  furrows  in  the  face  of  a  convict  of  five- 
and-twenty, —  sufficient  to  dash  the  brown  hair  with  gray, 
and  to  bleach  the  gray  to  white.  And  this  suspense  —  sus- 
pense of  this  nature  —  for  more  than  eight  whole  months  had 
Madeline  to  endure! 

About  the  end  of  the  second  month,  the  effect  upon  her 
health  grew  visible.  Her  color,  naturally  delicate  as  the 
hues  of  the  pink  shell  or  the  youngest  rose,  faded  into  one 
marble  whiteness,  which  again,  as  time  proceeded,  flushed 
into  that  red  and  preternatural  hectic  which,  once  settled, 
rarely  yields  its  place  but  to  the  colors  of  the  grave.  Her 
form  shrank  from  its  rounded  and  noble  proportions.  Deep 
^  See  Mr.  Wakefield's  work  On  the  Punishment  of  Death. 


368  EUGENE  ARAM. 

hollows  traced  themselves  beneath  eyes  which  yet  grew  even 
more  lovely  as  they  grew  less  serenely  bright.  The  blessed 
sleep  sunk  not  upon  her  brain  with  its  wonted  and  healing 
dews.  Perturbed  dreams,  that  towards  dawn  succeeded  the 
long  and  weary  vigil  of  the  night,  shook  her  frame  even  more 
than  the  anguish  of  the  day.  In  these  dreams  one  frightful 
vision, —  a  crowd,  a  scaffold,  and  the  pale,  majestic  face  of 
her  lover  darkened  by  unutterable  pangs  of  pride  and  sorrow, 
—  was  forever  present  before  her.  Till  now  she  and  Ellinor 
had  always  shared  the  same  bed;  this  Madeline  would  no 
longer  suffer.     In  vain  Ellinor  wept  and  pleaded. 

"No,"  said  Madeline,  with  a  hollow  voice;  "at  night  I  see 
him.  My  soul  is  alone  with  his;  but  —  but,"  and  she  burst 
into  an  agony  of  tears,  "the  most  dreadful  thought  is  this, — 
I  cannot  master  my  dreams.  And  sometimes  I  start  and 
wake,  and  find  that  in  sleep  I  have  believed  him  guilty, 
Nay,  0  God!  that  his  lips  have  proclaimed  the  guilt!  And 
shall  any  living  being,  shall  any  but  God,  who  reads  not 
words,  but  hearts,  hear  this  hideous  falsehood, —  this  ghastly 
mockery  of  the  lying  sleep  ?  No,  I  must  be  alone !  The 
very  stars  should  not  hear  what  is  forced  from  me  in  the 
madness  of  my  dreams." 

But  not  in  vain,  or  not  excluded  from  her,  was  that  elastic 
and  consoling  spirit  of  which  I  have  before  spoken.  As  Aram 
recovered  the  tenor  of  his  self-jiossession,  a  more  quiet  and 
peaceful  calm  diffused  itself  over  the  mind  of  Madeline.  Her 
high  and  starry  nature  could  comprehend  those  sublime  inspi- 
rations of  comfort  which  lift  us  from  the  lowest  abyss  of  this 
world  to  the  contemplation  of  all  that  the  yearning  visions 
of  mankind  have  painted  in  another.  vShe  would  sit,  rapt 
and  absorbed  for  hours  together,  till  these  contemplations 
assumed  the  color  of  a  gentle  and  soft  insanity.  "Come, 
dearest  Madeline,"  Ellinor  would  say, —  "come,  you  have 
thought  enough;  my  poor  father  asks  to  see  you." 

"Hush!"  Madeline  answered.  "Hush!  I  have  been  walk- 
ing with  Eugene  in  heaven.  And  oh!  there  are  green  woods 
and  lulling  waters  above,  as  there  are  on  earth,  and  we  see 
the  stars  quite  near;  and  I  cannot  tell  you  how  happy  their 


EUGENE   ARAM.  369 

smile  makes  those  who  look  upon  them.  And  Eugene  never 
starts  there,  nor  frowns,  nor  walks  aside,  nor  looks  on  me 
with  an  estranged  and  chilling  look,  but  his  face  is  as  calm 
and  bright  as  the  face  of  an  angel.  And  his  voice, —  it  thrills 
amidst  all  the  music  which  plays  there  night  and  day,  softer 
than  their  softest  note.  And  we  are  married,  Ellinor,  at 
last.  We  were  married  in  heaven,  and  all  the  angels  came  to 
the  marriage!  I  am  now  so  happy  that  we  were  not  wed  be- 
fore! What!  are  you  weeping,  Ellinor?  Ah!  we  never  weep 
in  heaven;  but  we  will  all  go  there  again,  all  of  us,  hand  in 
hand!" 

These  affecting  hallucinations  terrified  them,  lest  they 
should  settle  into  a  confirmed  loss  of  reason;  but  perhaps 
without  cause.  They  never  lasted  long,  and  never  occurred 
but  after  moods  of  abstraction  of  unusual  duration.  To  her 
they  probably  supplied  what  sleep  does  to  others, —  a  relaxa- 
tion and  refreshment,  an  escape  from  the  consciousness  of 
life.  And,  indeed,  it  might  always  be  noted  that  after  such 
harmless  aberrations  of  the  mind  Madeline  seemed  more  col- 
lected and  patient  in  thought,  and  for  the  moment  even  stronger 
in  frame  than  before.  Yet  the  body  evidently  pined  and  lan- 
guished, and  each  week  made  palpable  decay  in  her  vital 
powers. 

Every  time  Aram  saw  her,  he  was  startled  at  the  alteration ; 
and  kissing  her  cheek,  her  lips,  her  temples,  in  an  agony  of 
grief,  wondered  that  to  him  alone  it  was  forbidden  to  weep. 
Yet  after  all,  when  she  was  gone,  and  he  again  alone,  he 
could  not  but  think  death  likely  to  prove  to  her  the  most 
happy  of  earthly  boons.  He  was  not  sanguine  of  acquittal; 
and  even  in  acquittal,  a  voice  at  his  heart  suggested  insuper- 
able barriers  to  their  union,  which  had  not  existed  when  it 
was  first  anticipated. 

"Yes,  let  her  die,"  he  would  say,  "let  her  die, — she  at  least 
is  certain  of  heaven."  But  the  human  infirmity  clung  around 
him;  and  notwithstanding  this  seeming  resolution  in  her  ab- 
sence, he  did  not  mourn  the  less,  he  was  not  stung  the  less, 
when  he  saw  her  again,  and  beheld  a  new  character  from  the 
hand  of  death  graven  upon  her  form.     No,  we  may  triumph 

24 


370  EUGENE   ARAM. 

over  all  weakness  but  that  of  the  affections !  Perhaps  in  this 
dreary  and  haggard  interval  of  time  these  two  persons  loved 
each  other  more  purely,  more  strongly,  more  enthusiastically 
than  they  had  ever  done  at  any  former  period  of  their  event- 
ful history.  Over  the  hardest  stone,  as  over  the  softest  turf, 
the  green  moss  will  force  its  verdure  and  sustain  its  life. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  EVENING  BEFORE  THE  TRIAL. THE  COUSIN'S. THE  CHANGE 

IN  MADELINE. THE   FAMILY  OF  GRASSDALE  MEET  ONCE 

MORE  BENEATH  ONE  ROOF. 

Each  substance  of  a  grief  hath  twenty  shadows,  .  .  . 
For  Sorrow's  eye,  glazed  with  blinding  tears, 
Divides  one  thing  entire  to  many  objects. 

[Hope]  is  a  flatterer, 
A  parasite,  a  keeper  back  of  death,  — 
Who  gently  would  dissolve  the  bands  of  life, 
Which  false  Hope  lingers  in  extremity.  —  Richard  II. 

It  was  the  evening  before  the  trial.  Lester  and  his  daugh- 
ters lodged  at  a  retired  and  solitary  house  in  the  suburbs  of 
the  town  of  York;  and  thither,  from  the  village  some  miles 
distant  in  which  he  had  chosen  his  own  retreat,  Walter  now 
proceeded  across  fields  laden  with  the  ripening  corn.  The 
last  and  the  richest  month  of  summer  had  commenced;  but 
the  harvest  was  not  yet  begun,  and  deep  and  golden  showed 
the  vegetation  of  life,  bedded  among  the  dark  verdure  of  the 
hedge-rows  and  the  "merrie  woods."  The  evening  was  serene 
and  lulled;  at  a  distance  arose  the  spires  and  chimneys  of  the 
town,  but  no  sound  from  the  busy  hum  of  men  reached  the 
ear.  Nothing  perhaps  gives  a  more  entire  idea  of  stillness 
than  the  sight  of  those  abodes  where  "noise  dwelleth,"  but 
where  you  cannot  now  hear  even  its  murmurs.     The  stillness 


EUGENE   ARAM.  371 

of  a  city  is  far  more  impressive  than  that  of  Nature,  for  the 
mind  instantly  compares  the  present  silence  with  the  wonted 
uproar.  The  harvest-moon  rose  slowly  from  a  copse  of  gloomy 
firs,  and  infused  its  own  unspeakable  magic  into  the  hush  and 
transparency  of  the  night.  As  Walter  walked  slowly  on,  the 
sound  of  voices  from  some  rustic  party  going  homeward  broke 
jocundly  on  the  silence ;  and  when  he  paused  for  a  moment  at 
the  stile  from  which  he  first  caught  a  glimpse  of  Lester's 
house,  he  saw,  winding  along  the  green  hedge-row,  some  vil- 
lage pair,  the  "lover  and  the  maid,"  who  could  meet  only  at 
such  hours,  and  to  whom  such  hours  were  therefore  especially 
dear.  It  was  altogether  a  scene  of  pure  and  true  pastoral  char- 
acter, and  there  was  all  around  a  semblance  of  tranquillity,  of 
happiness,  which  suits  with  the  poetical  and  the  scriptural 
paintings  of  a  pastoral  life,  and  which,  perhaps,  in  a  new  and 
fertile  country  may  still  find  a  realization.  From  this  scene, 
from  these  thoughts,  the  young  loiterer  turned  with  a  sigh 
towards  the  solitary  house  in  which  this  night  could  awaken 
none  but  the  most  anxious  feelings,  and  that  moon  could  beam 
only  on  the  most  troubled  hearts. 

"  Terra  salutiferas  herbas,  eademque  nocentes 
Nutrit ;  et  urticae  proxima  saepe  rosa  est."  ^ 

He  now  walked  more  quickly  on,  as  if  stung  by  his  reflec- 
tions; and  avoiding  the  path  which  led  to  the  front  of  the 
house,  gained  a  little  garden  at  the  rear,  and  opening  a  gate 
that  admitted  to  a  narrow  and  shaded  walk,  over  which  the 
linden  and  nut  trees  made  a  sort  of  continuous  and  natural 
arbor,  the  moon,  piercing  at  broken  intervals  through  the 
boughs,   rested  on  the  form  of  Ellinor  Lester. 

"This  is  most  kind,  most  like  my  own  sweet  cousin,"  said 
Walter,  approaching;  "I  cannot  say  how  fearful  I  was  lest 
you  should  not  meet  me  after  all." 

"Indeed,  Walter,"  replied  Ellinor,  "I  found  some  difficulty 
in  concealing  your  note,  which  was  given  me  in  Madeline's 
presence,  and  still  more  in  stealing  out  unobserved  by  her; 

1  "The  same  earth  produces  health-bearing  and  deadly  plants;  and  oft- 
times  the  rose  grows  nearest  to  the  nettle." 


372  EUGENE  ARAM. 

for  she  has  been,  as  you  may  well  conceive,  unusually  restless 
the  whole  of  this  agonizing  day.  Ah,  Walter,  would  to  God 
you  had  never  left  us ! " 

"Rather  say,"  rejoined  Walter,  "would  that  this  unhappy 
man,  against  whom  my  father's  ashes  still  seem  to  me  to  cry 
aloud,  had  never  come  into  our  peaceful  and  happy  valley! 
Then  7jou  would  not  have  reproached  me  that  I  have  sought 
justice  on  a  suspected  murderer,  nor  /  have  longed  for  death 
rather  than,  in  that  justice,  have  inflicted  such  distress  and 
horror  on  those  whom  I  love  the  best !  " 

"What,  Walter,  you  yet  believe,  —  you  are  yet  convinced 
that  Eugene  Aram  is  the  real  criminal  ? " 

"Let  to-morrow  show,"  answered  Walter,  "But  poor,  poor 
Madeline!  How  does  she  bear  up  against  this  long  suspense  ? 
You  know  I  have  not  seen  her  for  months." 

"Oh,  Walter,"  said  Ellinor,  weeping  bitterly,  "you  would 
not  know  her,  so  dreadfully  is  she  altered.  I  fear  "  (here  sobs 
choked  the  sister's  voice,  so  as  to  leave  it  scarcely  audible) 
"  that  she  is  not  many  weeks  for  this  world !  " 

"  Just  Heaven !  is  it  so  ?  "  exclaimed  Walter,  so  shocked 
that  the  tree  against  which  he  leaned,  scarcely  preserved  him 
from  falling  to  the  ground,  as  the  thousand  remembrances  of 
his  first  love  rushed  upon  his  heart.  "  And  Providence  singled 
me  out  of  the  whole  world  to  strike  this  blow !  " 

Despite  her  own  grief,  Ellinor  was  touched  and  smitten  by 
the  violent  emotion  of  her  cousin;  and  the  two  young  persons, 
lovers,  though  love  was  at  this  time  the  least  perceptible  feel- 
ing of  their  breast,  mingled  their  emotions,  and  souglit  at 
least  to  console  and  cheer  each  other. 

"It  may  yet  be  better  than  our  fears,"  said  Ellinor,  sooth- 
ingly. "Eugene  may  be  found  guiltless,  and  in  that  joy  we 
may  forget  all  the  past." 

Walter  shook  his  head  despondingly.  "  Your  heart,  Ellinor, 
was  always  kind  to  me.  You  now  are  the  only  one  to  do  me 
justice,  and  to  see  how  utterly  reproachless  I  am  for  all  the 
misery  the  crime  of  another  occasions.  But  my  uncle, —  hnn, 
too,  I  have  not  seen  for  some  time :  is  he  well  ?  " 

"Yes,   Walter,   yes,"  said  Ellinor,    kindly  disguising   the 


EUGENE   ARAM.  373 

real  truth,  how  much  her  father's  vigorous  frame  had  been 
bowed  by  his  state  of  mind.  "And  I,  you  see,"  added  she, 
with  a  faint  attempt  to  smile,  "I  am  in  health  at  least, — the 
same  as  when,  this  time  last  year,  we  were  all  happy  and  full 
of  hope." 

Walter  looked  hard  upon  that  face,  once  so  vivid  with  the 
rich  color  and  the  buoyant  and  arch  expression  of  liveliness 
and  youth,  now  pale,  subdued,  and  worn  by  the  traces  of  con- 
stant tears ;  and,  pressing  his  hand  convulsively  on  his  heart, 
turned  away. 

"  But  can  I  not  see  my  uncle  ?  "  said  he,  after  a  pause. 

"He  is  not  at  home;  he  has  gone  to  the  Castle,"  replied 
Ellinor. 

"I  shall  meet  him,  then,  on  his  way  home,"  returned 
Walter.  "But,  Ellinor,  there  is  surely  no  truth  in  a  vague 
rumor  which  I  heard  in  the  town,  that  Madeline  intends  to  be 
present  at  the  trial  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  fear  that  she  will.  Both  my  father  and  myself 
have  sought  strongly  and  urgently  to  dissuade  her,  but  in 
vain.  You  know,  with  all  that  gentleness,  how  resolute  she 
is  when  her  mind  is  once  determined  on  any  object." 

"But  if  the  verdict  should  be  against  the  prisoner,  in  her 
state  of  health  consider  how  terrible  would  be  the  shock! 
Nay,  even  the  joy  of  acquittal  might  be  equally  dangerous. 
For  Heaven's  sake,   do  not  suffer  her." 

"  What  is  to  be  done,  Walter  ?  "  said  Ellinor,  wringing  her 
hands.  "  We  cannot  help  it.  My  father  has  at  last  forbidden 
me  to  contradict  the  wish.  Contradiction,  the  physician  him- 
self says,  might  be  as  fatal  as  concession  can  be.  And  my 
father  adds,  in  a  stern,  calm  voice  which  it  breaks  my  heart 
to  hear :  '  Be  still,  Ellinor.  If  the  innocent  is  to  perish,  the 
sooner  she  joins  him  the  better:  I  would  then  have  all  my 
ties  on  the  other  side  the  grave!'" 

"  How  that  strange  man  seems  to  have  fascinated  you  all !  " 
said  Walter,  bitterly. 

Ellinor  did  not  answer;  over  her  the  fascination  had  never 
been  to  an  equal  degree  with  the  rest  of  her  family. 

"Ellinor! ''  said  Walter,  who  had  been  walking  for  the  last 


374  EUGENE  ARAM. 

few  moments  to  and  fro  with  the  rapid  strides  of  a  man  de- 
bating with  himself,  and  who  now  suddenly  paused,  and  laid 
his  hand  on  his  cousin's  arm, —  "Ellinor!  lam  resolved.  I 
must,  for  the  quiet  of  my  soul  I  must,  see  Madeline  this 
night,  and  win  her  forgiveness  for  all  I  have  been  made  the 
unintentional  agent  of  Providence  to  bring  upon  her.  The 
peace  of  my  future  life  may  depend  on  this  single  interview. 
What  if  Aram  be  condemned  ?  And  —  in  short,  it  is  no  mat- 
ter,—  I  must  see  her." 

"She  would  not  hear  of  it,  I  fear,"  said  Ellinor,  in  alarm. 
"Indeed,  you  cannot;  you  do  not  know  her  state  of  mind." 

"Ellinor!"  said  Walter,  doggedly,  "I  am  resolved."  And 
so  saying,   he  moved  towards  the  house. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Ellinor,  whose  nerves  had  been  greatly 
shattered  by  the  scenes  and  sorrow  of  the  last  several  months, 
"  if  it  must  be  so,  wait  at  least  till  I  have  gone  in  and  con- 
sulted with  or  prepared  her." 

"As  you  will,  my  gentlest,  kindest  cousin;  I  know  your 
prudence  and  affection.  I  leave  you  to  obtain  me  this  inter- 
view; you  can,  and  will,  I  am  convinced." 

"  Do  not  be  sanguine,  Walter.  I  can  only  promise  to  use 
my  best  endeavors, "  answered  Ellinor,  blushing  as  he  kissed 
her  hand;  and,  hurrying  up  the  walk,  she  disappeared  within 
the  house. 

Walter  walked  for  some  moments  about  the  alley  in  which 
Ellinor  had  left  him;  but  growing  impatient,  he  at  length 
wound  through  the  overhanging  trees,  and  the  house  stood 
immediately  before  him,  the  moonlight  shining  full  on  the 
window-panes,  and  sleeping  in  quiet  shadow  over  the  green 
turf  in  front.  He  approached  yet  nearer,  and  through  one  of 
the  windows,  by  a  single  light  in  the  room,  he  saw  Ellinor 
leaning  over  a  couch  on  which  a  form  reclined  that  his  heart, 
rather  than  his  sight,  told  him  was  his  once-adored  Madeline. 
He  stopped,  and  his  breath  heaved  thick;  he  thought  of  their 
common  home  at  Grassdale,  of  the  old  manor-house,  of  the 
little  parlor,  with  the  woodbine  at  its  casement,  of  the  group 
within,  once  so  happy  and  light-hearted,  of  which  he  had 
formerly  made  the  one  most  buoyant,   and  not  least   loved. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  375 

And  now  this  strange,  this  desolate  house,  himself  estranged 
from  all  once  regarding  him  (and  those  broken-hearted),  this 
night  ushering  what  a  morrow!  He  groaned  almost  aloud, 
and  retreated  once  more  into  the  shadow  of  the  trees.  In  a 
few  minutes  the  door  at  the  right  of  the  building  opened,  and 
Ellinor  came  forth  with  a  quick  step. 

"Come  in,  dear  Walter,"  said  she,  "Madeline  has  consented 
to  see  you,  —  nay,  when  I  told  her  you  were  here,  and  desired 
an  interview,  she  paused  but  for  one  instant,  and  then  begged 
me  to  admit  you." 

"God   bless  her!"  said  poor   Walter,   drawing   his  hand 
across  his  eyes,   and  following  Ellinor  to  the  door. 

"You  will  find  her  greatly  changed!  "  whispered  Ellinor,  as 
they  gained  the  outer  hall;  "be  prepared!  " 

Walter  did  not  reply,  save  by  an  expressive  gesture;  and 
Ellinor  led  him  into  a  room  which  communicated,  by  one  of 
those  glass  doors  often  to  be  seen  in  the  old-fashioned  houses 
of  country  towns,  with  the  one  in  which  he  had  previously 
seen  Madeline.  With  a  noiseless  step,  and  almost  holding 
his  breath,  he  followed  his  fair  guide  through  this  apartment, 
and  he  now  stood  by  the  couch  on  which  Madeline  still  re- 
clined. She  held  out  her  hand  to  him;  he  pressed  it  to  his 
lips,  without  daring  to  look  her  in  the  face,  and  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause  she  said, — 

"  So  you  wished  to  see  me,  Walter  ?  It  is  an  anxious  night, 
this,  for  all  of  us." 

"For  a7Z,"  repeated  Walter,  emphatically;  "and  for  me  not 
the  least." 

"We  have  known  some  sad  days  since  we  last  met,"  re- 
newed Madeline;  and  there  was  another  and  an  embarrassed 
pause. 

"  Madeline,  dearest  Madeline !  "  said  Walter,  and  at  length 
dropping  on  his  knee,  "you  whom  while  I  was  yet  a  boy  I  so 
fondly,  passionately  loved,  you  who  yet  are,  who,  while  I 
live,  ever  will  be,  so  inexpressibly  dear  to  me, — say  but  one 
word  to  me  in  this  uncertain  and  dreadful  epoch  of  our  fate; 
say  but  one  word  to  me, —  say  you  feel,  you  are  conscious, 
that  throughout  these  terrible  events  /  have  not  been  to  blame, 


376  EUGENE   ARAM. 

/have  not  willingly  brought  this  affliction  upon  our  house; 
least  of  all  upon  that  heart  which  my  own  would  have  for- 
feited its  best  blood  to  preserve  from  the  slightest  evil.  Or 
if  you  will  not  do  me  this  justice,  say  at  least  that  you  for- 
give me!  " 

"I  forgive  you,  Walter!  I  do  you  justice,  my  cousin,"  re- 
plied Madeline,  with  energy,  and  raising  herself  on  her  arm. 
"It  is  long  since  I  have  felt  how  unreasonable  it  was  to 
throw  any  blame  upon  you,  the  mere  and  passive  instrument 
of  Fate.  If  I  have  forborne  to  see  you,  it  was  not  from  an 
angry  feeling,  but  from  a  reluctant  weakness.  God  bless  and 
preserve  you,  my  dear  cousin!  I  know  that  your  own  heart 
has  bled  as  profusely  as  ours ;  and  it  was  but  this  day  that  I 
told  my  father,  if  we  never  met  again,  to  express  to  you  some 
kind  message  as  a  last  memorial  from  me.  Don't  weep, 
Walter!  It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  see  men  weep!  It  is  only 
once  that  I  have  seen  him  weep,  —  that  was  long,  long  ago! 
He  has  no  tears  in  the  hour  of  dread  and  danger.  But  no 
matter;  this  is  a  bad  world,  Walter,  and  I  am  tired  of  it. 
Are  not  you  ?  Why  do  you  look  so  at  me,  Ellinor  ?  I  am 
not  mad.  Has  she  told  you  that  I  am,  Walter  ?  Don't  be- 
lieve her.  Look  at  me!  I  am  calm  and  collected!  Yet  to- 
morrow is—    O  God!  0  God!   if  — if_" 

Madeline  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  became 
suddenly  silent,  though  only  for  a  short  time ;  when  she  again 
lifted  up  her  eyes,  they  encountered  those  of  Walter,  as 
through  those  blinding  and  agonized  tears  which  are  wrung 
from  the  grief  of  manhood  he  gazed  upon  that  face  on  which 
nothing  of  herself,  save  the  divine  and  unearthly  expression 
which  had  always  characterized  her  loveliness,  was  left. 

"Yes,  Walter,  I  am  wearing  fast  away, —  fast  beyond  the 
power  of  chance !  Thank  God,  who  tempers  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb,  if  the  worst  happen,  %ve  cannot  be  divided  long ! 
Ere  another  Sabbath  has  passed,  I  may  be  with  him  in  Para- 
dise.    What  cause  shall  we  then  have  for  regret  ? " 

Ellinor  flung  herself  on  her  sister's  neck,  sobbing  violently. 
"Yes,  we  shall  regret  you  are  not  with  us,  Ellinor;  but  you 
will  also  soon  grow  tired  of  the  world.     It  is  a  sad  place,  it 


EUGENE   ARAM.  377 

is  a  wicked  place,  it  is  full  of  snares  and  pitfalls.  In  oui 
walk  to-day  lies  our  destruction  for  to-morrow !  You  will  find 
this  soon,  Ellinor !  And  you,  and  my  father,  and  Walter  too, 
shall  join  us!  Hark!  the  clock  strikes.  By  this  time  to- 
morrow night,  what  triumph! — or,  to  me,  at  least  [sinking 
her  voice  into  a  whisper  that  thrilled  through  the  very  bones 
of  her  listeners],   what  peace!" 

Happily  for  all  parties,  this  distressing  scene  was  here  in- 
terrupted. Lester  entered  the  room  with  the  heavy  step  into 
which  his  once  elastic  and  cheerful  tread  had  subsided. 

"  Ha,  Walter ! "  said  he,  irresolutely  glancing  over  the 
group;    but  Madeline  had  already  sprung  from  her  seat. 

"  You  have  seen  him,  you  have  seen  him !  And  how  does 
he  —  how  does  he  look  ?  But  that  I  know ;  I  know  his  brave 
heart  does  not  sink.  And  what  message  does  he  send  to  me  ? 
And  —  and  —  tell  me  all,   my  father ;    quick,  quick !  " 

"  Dear,  miserable  child !  and  miserable  old  man !  "  muttered 
Lester,  folding  her  in  his  arms.  "But  we  ought  to  take 
courage  and  comfort  from  him,  Madeline.  A  hero  on  the  eve 
of  battle  could  not  be  more  firm,  even  more  cheerful.  He 
smiled  often,  his  old  smile;  and  he  only  left  tears  and  anx- 
ieties to  us.  But  of  you,  Madeline,  we  spoke  mostly;  he 
would  scarcely  let  me  say  a  word  on  anything  else.  Oh,  what 
a  kind  heart,  what  a  noble  spirit!  And  perhaps  a  chance  to- 
morrow may  quench  both.  But  God,  be  just,  and  let  the 
avenging  lightning  fall  on  the  real  criminal,  and  not  blast  the 
innocent  man !  " 

"Amen!"  said  Madeline,  deeply. 

"Amen!  "  repeated  Walter,  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart, 

"  Let  us  pray !  "  exclaimed  Lester,  animated  by  a  sudden 
impulse,  and  falling  on  his  knees.  The  whole  group  followed 
his  example;  and  Lester,  in  a  trembling  and  impassioned 
voice,  poured  forth  an  extempore  prayer  that  justice  might 
fall  only  where  it  was  due.  Never  did  that  majestic  and  paus- 
ing moon,  which  filled  the  lowly  room  as  with  the  presence  of 
a  spirit,  witness  a  more  impressive  adjuration  or  a  audience 
more  absorbed  and  rapt.  Full  streamed  its  holy  rays  upon 
the   now   snowy   locks   and  upward  countenance  of  Lester, 


378  EUGENE  ARAM. 

making  his  venerable  person  more  striking  from  the  contrast 
it  afforded  to  the  dark  and  sunburnt  cheek,  the  energetic 
features,  and  chivalric  and  earnest  head  of  the  young  man 
beside  him.  Just  in  the  shadow,  the  raven  locks  of  Ellinor 
were  bowed  over  her  clasped  hands,  nothing  of  her  face  visi- 
ble, the  graceful  neck  and  heaving  breast  alone  distinguished 
from  the  shadow;  and  hushed  in  a  death-like  and  solemn  re- 
pose, the  parted  lips  moving  inaudibly,  the  eye  hxed  on  va- 
cancy, the  wan,  transparent  hands  crossed  upon  her  bosom, 
the  light  shone  with  a  more  softened  and  tender  ray  upon  the 
faded  but  all-angelic  form  and  countenance  of  her  for  whom 
Heaven  was  already  preparing  its  eternal  recompense  for  the 
ills  of  earth. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE    TRIAL. 

Equal  to  either  fortune.  —  Speech  of  Eitgene  Aram. 

A  THOUGHT  comes  over  us  sometimes,  in  our  career  of  pleas- 
ure or  the  troubled  exultation  of  our  ambitious  pursuits, —  a 
thought  comes  over  us,  like  a  cloud,  that  around  us  and  about 
us  Death,  Shame,  Crime,  Despair,  are  busy  at  their  work.  I 
have  read  somewhere  of  an  enchanted  land  where  the  inmates 
walked  along  voluptuous  gardens,  and  built  palaces,  and  heard 
music,  and  made  merry;  while  around  and  within-the  land 
were  deep  caverns,  where  the  gnomes  and  the  fiends  dwelt, 
and  ever  and  anon  their  groans  and  laughter,  and  the  so\inds 
of  their  unutterable  toils  or  ghastly  revels,  travelled  to  the 
upper  air,  mixing  in  an  awful  strangeness  with  the  summer 
festivity  and  buoyant  occupation  of  those  above.  And  this  is 
the  picture  of  human  life!  These  reflections  of  the  madden- 
ing disparities  of  the  world  are  dark,   but  salutary, — ■ 

"  They  wrap  our  thoughts  at  banquets  in  the  shroud ;  "  ^ 
but  we  are  seldom  sadder  without  being  also  wiser  men. 

^  Young. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  379 

The  3d  of  August,  1759,  rose  bright,  calm,  and  clear, —  it 
was  the  morning  of  the  trial;  and  when  Ellinor  stole  into 
her  sister's  room  she  found  Madeline  sitting  before  the 
glass,  and  braiding  her  rich  locks  with  an  evident  attention 
and  care. 

"I  wish,"  said  she,  "that  you  had  pleased  me  by  dressing 
as  for  a  holiday.  See,  I  am  going  to  wear  the  dress  I  was  to 
have  been  married  in." 

Ellinor  shuddered;  for  what  is  more  appalling  than  to  find 
the  signs  of  gayety  accompanying  the  reality  of  anguish  ? 

"Yes,"  continued  Madeline,  with  a  smile  of  inexpressible 
sweetness,  "a  little  reflection  will  convince  you  that  this  day 
ought  not  to  be  one  of  mourning.  It  was  the  suspense  that 
has  so  worn  out  our  hearts.  If  he  is  acquitted,  as  we  all  be- 
lieve and  trust,  think  how  appropriate  will  be  the  outward 
seeming  of  our  joy !  If  not,  why  I  shall  go  before  him  to  our 
marriage  home  and  in  marriage  garments.  Ay,"  she  added, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  and  with  a  much  more  grave,  settled, 
and  intense  expression  of  voice  and  countenance, —  "ay,  do 
you  remember  how  Eugene  once  told  us  that  if  we  went  at 
noon-day  to  the  bottom  of  a  deep  pit,  i  we  should  be  able  to 
see  the  stars,  which  on  the  level  ground  are  invisible  ?  Even 
so,  from  the  depths  of  grief  —  worn,  wretched,  seared,  and 
dying  —  the  blessed  apparitions  and  tokens  of  heaven  make 
themselves  visible  to  our  eyes.  And  I  know,  I  have  seen,  I 
feel  here,"  pressing  her  hand  on  her  heart,  "that  my  course 
is  run;  a  few  sands  only  are  left  in  the  glass, —  let  us  waste 
them  bravely.  Stay,  Ellinor!  You  see  these  poor  withered 
rose-leaves:  Eugene  gave  them  to  me  the  day  before  —  before 
that  fixed  for  our  marriage.  I  shall  wear  them  to-day  as  I 
would  have  worn  them  on  the  wedding-day.  When  he  gath- 
ered the  poor  flower,  how  fresh  it  was !  and  I  kissed  off  the 
dew:  now  see  it!  But  come,  come, — this  is  trifling;  we  must 
not  be  late.  Help  me,  Nell,  help  me;  come,  bustle,  quick, 
quick!  Nay,  be  not  so  slovenly;  I  told  you  I  would  be  dressed 
with  care  to-day." 

1  The  remark  is  in  Aristotle.  Buffon  quotes  it,  with  his  usual  adroit 
felicity,  iu,  I  thiuk,  tlie  first  volume  of  his  great  work. 


880  EUGENE   ARAM. 

And  when  Madeline  ivas  dressed,  though,  the  robe  sat  loose 
and  in  large  folds  over  her  shrunken  form,  yet  as  she  stood 
erect,  and  looked,  with  a  smile  that  saddened  Ellinor  more 
than  tears,  at  her  image  in  the  glass,  perhaps  her  beauty  never 
seemed  of  a  more  striking  and  lofty  character, —  she  looked 
indeed  a  bride,  but  the  bride  of  no  earthly  nuptials.  Pres- 
ently they  heard  an  irresolute  and  trembling  step  at  the  door, 
and  Lester,   knocking,   asked  if  they  were  prepared. 

"Come  in,  father,"  said  Madeline,  in  a  calm  and  even 
cheerful  voice;    and  the  old  man  entered. 

He  cast  a  silent  glance  over  Madeline's  white  dress,  and 
then  at  his  own,  which  was  deep  mourning;  the  glance  said 
volumes,  and  its  meaning  was  not  marred  by  words  from  any 
one  of  the  three. 

"Yes,  father,"  said  Madeline,  breaking  the  pause,  "we  are 
all  ready.     Is  the  carriage  here  ?  " 

"It  is  at  the  door,  my  child." 

"  Come  then,  Ellinor,  come !  "  and  leaning  on  her  arm, 
Madeline  walked  towards  the  door.  When  she  got  to  the 
threshold,   she  paused,   and  looked  round  the  room. 

"  What  is  it  you  want  ?  "  asked  Ellinor. 

"I  was  but  bidding  all  here  farewell,"  replied  Madeline,  in 
a  soft  and  touching  voice.  "And  now  before  we  leave  the 
house,  father,  sister,  one  word  with  you.  You  have  ever  been 
very,  very  kind  to  me,  and  most  of  all  in  this  bitter  trial, 
when  I  must  have  taxed  your  patience  sadly, —  for  I  know  all 
is  not  right  here  [touching  her  forehead]  :  I  cannot  go  forth 
this  day  without  thanking  you.  Ellinor,  my  dearest  friend, 
my  fondest  sister,  my  playmate  in  gladness,  my  comforter  in 
grief,  my  nurse  in  sickness,  since  we  were  little  children  we 
have  talked  together  and  laughed  together  and  wept  together; 
and  though  we  knew  all  the  thoughts  of  each  other,  we  have 
never  known  one  thought  that  we  would  have  concealed  from 
God.  And  now  we  are  going  to  part —  Do  not  stop  me;  it 
must  be  so,  I  know  it.  But  after  a  little  while  may  you  be 
happy  again, —  not  so  buoyant  as  you  have  been,  that  can 
never  be,  but  still  happy !  You  are  formed  for  love  and  home, 
and   for  those  ties  you  once  thought  would  be  mine.     God 


EUGENE  ARAM.  381 

grant  that  I  may  have  suffered  for  us  both,  and  that  when  we 
meet  hereafter  you  may  tell  me  you  have  been  happy  here ! 

"But  you,  father,"  added  Madeline,  tearing  herself  from 
the  neck  of  her  weeping  sister,  and  sinking  on  her  knees  be- 
fore Lester,  who  leaned  against  the  wall  convulsed  with  his 
emotions  and  covering  his  face  with  his  hands, —  "but  you, 
what  can  I  say  to  you  ?  You,  who  have  never,  no,  not  in  ray 
first  childhood,  said  one  harsh  word  to  me;  who  have  sunk 
all  a  father's  authority  in  a  father's  love, —  how  can  I  say 
all  that  I  feel  for  you,  —  the  grateful,  overflowing  (painful,  yet 
oh,  how  sweet!)  remembrances  which  crowd  around  and  suffo- 
cate me  now  ?  The  time  will  come  when  Ellinor  and  Ellinor's 
children  must  be  all  in  all  to  you ;  when  of  your  poor  Made- 
line nothing  will  be  left  but  a  memory :  but  they,  they  will 
watch  on  you  and  tend  you,  and  protect  your  gray  hairs  from 
sorrow,  as  I  might  once  have  hoped  I  also  was  fated  to  do." 

"My  child,  my  child,  you  break  my  heart!"  faltered  forth 
at  last  the  poor  old  man,  who  till  now  had  in  vain  endeavored 
to  speak. 

"Give  me  your  blessing,  dear  father,"  said  Madeline,  her- 
self overcome  by  her  feelings ;  "  put  your  hand  on  my  head 
and  bless  me,  and  say  that  if  I  have  ever  unconsciously  given 
you  a  moment's  pain,  I  am  forgiven !  " 

"Forgiven!"  repeated  Lester,  raising  his  daughter  with 
weak  and  trembling  arms  as  his  tears  fell  fast  upon  her  cheek, 
—  "  never  did  I  feel  what  an  angel  had  sat  beside  my  hearth 
till  now!  But  be  comforted,  be  cheered.  What  if  Heaven 
had  reserved  its  crowning  mercy  till  this  day,  and  Eugene  be 
amongst  us,  free,  acquitted,  triumphant,  before  the  night ! " 

"Ha!  "  said  Madeline,  as  if  suddenly  roused  by  the  thought 
into  new  life,  "ha!  let  us  hasten  to  find  your  words  true. 
Yes,  yes,  if  it  should  be  so,  if  it  should!  And,"  added  she,  in 
a  hollow  voice  (the  enthusiasm  checked),  "if  it  were  not  for 
my  dreams,  I  might  believe  it  would  be  so;  but —  Come,  I 
am  ready  now." 

The  carriage  went  slowly  through  the  crowd  that  the  fame 
of  the  approaching  trial  had  gathered  along  the  streets ;  but 
the  blinds  were  drawn  down,  and  the  father  and  daughter  es- 


382  EUGENE  ARAM. 

caped  that  worst  of  tortures,  the  curious  gaze  of  strangers  on 
distress.  Places  had  been  kept  for  them  in  court;  and  as 
they  left  the  carriage  and  entered  the  fatal  spot,  the  venera- 
ble figure  of  Lester  and  the  trembling  and  veiled  forms  that 
clung  to  him  arrested  all  eyes.  They  at  length  gained  their 
seats,  and  it  was  not  long  before  a  bustle  in  the  courc  drew 
off  attention  from  them.  A  buzz,  a  murmur,  a  movement,  a 
dread  pause.  Houseman  was  first  arraigned  on  his  former 
indictment,  acquitted,  and  admitted  evidence  against  Aram, 
who  was  thereupon  arraigned.  The  prisoner  stood  at  the  bar. 
Madeline  gasped  for  breath,  and  clung,  with  a  convulsive 
motion,  to  her  sister's  arm.  But  presently,  with  a  long 
sigh,  she  recovered  her  self-possession,  and  sat  quiet  and  si- 
lent, fixing  her  eyes  upon  Aram's  countenance;  and  the  as- 
pect of  that  countenance  was  well  calculated  to  sustain  her 
courage  and  to  mingle  a  sort  of  exulting  pride  with  all  the 
strained  and  fearful  acuteness  of  her  sympathy.  Something, 
indeed,  of  what  he  had  suffered  was  visible  in  the  prisoner's 
features, — the  lines  around  the  mouth,  in  which  mental  anx- 
iety generally  the  most  deeply  writes  its  traces,  were  grown 
marked  and  furrowed;  gray  hairs  Avere  here  and  there  scat- 
tered amongst  the  rich  and  long  luxuriance  of -his  dark-brown 
locks;  and  as,  before  his  imprisonment,  he  had  seemed  con- 
siderably younger  than  he  was,  so  now  time  had  atoned  for 
its  past  delay,  and  he  might  have  appeared  to  have  told  more 
years  than  had  really  gone  over  his  head:  but  the  remarkable 
light  and  beauty  of  his  eye  was  undimmed  as  ever,  and  still 
the  broad  expanse  of  his  forehead  retained  its  unwrinkled 
surface  and  striking  expression  of  calmness  and  majesty. 
High,  self-collected,  serene,  and  undaunted,  he  looked  upon 
the  crowd,  the  scene,  the  judge,  before  and  around  him;  and 
even  on  those  who  believed  him  guilty,  that  involuntary  and 
irresistible  respect  which  moral  firmness  always  produces  on 
the  mind,  forced  an  unwilling  interest  in  his  fate,  and  even  a 
reluctant  hope  of  his  acquittal. 

Houseman  was  called  upon.  No  one  could  regard  his  face 
without  a  certain  mistrust  and  inward  shudder.  In  men 
prone  to  cruelty,  it  has  generally  been  remarked  that  there  is 


EUGENE   ARAM.  883 

an  animal  expression  strongly  prevalent  in  the  countenance. 
The  murderer  and  the  lustful  man  are  often  alike  in  the 
physical  structure.  The  bull-throat,  the  thicik  lips,  the  re- 
ceding forehead,  the  fierce,  restless  eye,  which  some  one  or 
other  says  reminds  you  of  the  buffalo  in  the  instant  before  he 
becomes  dangerous,  are  the  outward  tokens  of  the  natural 
animal  unsoftened,  unenlightened,  unredeemed,  consulting 
only  the  immediate  desires  of  his  nature,  whatever  be  the 
passion  (lust  or  revenge)  to  which  they  prompt.  And  this 
animal  expression,  the  witness  of  his  character,  was  espe- 
cially stamped  upon  Houseman's  rugged  and  harsh  features, — 
rendered,  if  possible,  still  more  remarkable  at  that  time  by  a 
mixture  of  sullenness  and  timidity.  The  conviction  that  his 
own  life  was  saved,  could  not  prevent  remorse  at  his  treach- 
ery in  accusing  his  comrade, — a  confused  principle  of  honor 
of  which  villains  are  the  most  susceptible  when  every  other 
honest  sentiment  has  deserted  them. 

With  a  low,  choked,  and  sometimes  a  faltering  tone,  House- 
man deposed  that  in  the  night  between  the  7th  and  8th  of 
February,  1744-5,  some  time  before  eleven  o'clock,  he  went  to 
Aram's  house;  that  they  conversed  on  different  matters;  that 
he  stayed  there  about  an  hour;  that  some  three  hours  after- 
wards he  passed,  in  company  with  Clarke,  by  Aram's  house, 
and  Aram  was  outside  the  door,  as  if  he  were  about  to  return 
home;  that  Aram  invited  them  both  to  come  in;  that  they 
did  so;  that  Clarke,  who  intended  to  leave  the  town  before 
daybreak,  in  order,  it  was  acknowledged,  to  make  secretly 
away  with  certain  property  in  his  possession,  was  about  to 
quit  the  house,  when  Aram  proposed  to  accompany  him  out 
of  the  toAvn ;  that  he  (Aram)  and  Houseman  then  went  forth 
with  Clarke;  that  when  they  came  into  the  field  where  St. 
Robert's  Cave  is,  Aram  and  Clarke  went  into  it,  over  the 
hedge,  and  when  they  came  within  six  or  eight  yards  of  the 
cave,  he  saw  them  quarrelling;  that  he  saw  Aram  strike 
Clarke  several  times,  upon  which  Clarke  fell,  and  he  never 
saw  him  rise  again;  that  he  saw  no  instrument  Aram  had, 
and  knew  not  that  he  had  any;  that  upon  this,  without  any 
interposition  or  alarm,  he  left  them  and  returned  home;  that 


384  EUGENE    ARAM. 

the  next  morning  lie  went  to  Aram's  house,  and  asked  what 
business  he  had  witli  Clarke  last  night,  and  what  he  had  done 
with  him  ?  Aram  replied  not  to  this  question,  but  threatened 
him  if  he  spoke  of  his  being  in  Clarke's  company  that  night; 
vowing  revenge,  either  by  himself  or  some  other  person,  if 
he  mentioned  anything  relating  to  the  affair.  This  was  the 
sum  of  Houseman's  evidence. 

A  ]\Ir.  Beckwith  was  next  called,  who  deposed  that  Aram's 
garden  had  been  searched,  owing  to  a  vague  suspicion  that  he 
might  have  been  an  accomplice  in  the  frauds  of  Clarke;  that 
some  parts  of  clothing,  and  also  some  pieces  of  cambric 
which  he  had  sold  to  Clarke  a  little  while  before,  were  found 
there. 

The  third  witness  was  the  watchman,  Thomas  Barnet,  who 
deposed  that  before  midnight  (it  might  be  a  little  after  eleven) 
he  saw  a  person  come  out  from  Aram's  house,  who  had  a  wide 
coat  on,  with  the  cape  about  his  head,  and  seemed  to  shun 
him;  whereupon  he  went  up  to  him  and  put  by  the  cape  of 
his  great-coat,  and  perceived  it  to  be  Bichard  Houseman.  He 
contented  himself  with  wishing  him  good  night. 

The  officers  who  executed  the  warrant  then  gave  their  evi- 
dence as  to  the  arrest,  and  dwelt  on  some  expressions  dropped 
by  Aram  before  he  arrived  at  Knaresborough,  which  however 
were  felt  to  be  wholly  unimportant. 

After  this  evidence  there  was  a  short  pause,  and  then  a 
shiver;  that  recoil  and  tremor  which  men  feel  at  any  exposi- 
tion of  the  relics  of  the  dead  ran  through  the  court :  for  the 
next  witness  was  mute, —  it  was  the  skull  of  the  deceased. 
On  the  left  side  there  was  a  fracture,  that  from  the  nature  of 
it  seemed  as  if  it  could  only  have  been  made  by  the  stroke  of 
some  blunt  instrument.  The  piece  was  broken,  and  could  not 
be  replaced  but  from  within. 

The  surgeon,  Mr.  Locock,  who  produced  it,  gave  it  as  his 
opinion  that  no  such  breach  could  proceed  from  natural  decay ; 
that  it  was  not  a  recent  fracture,  by  the  instrument  with 
which  it  was  dug  up,  but  seemed  to  be  of  many  years'  standing. 

This  made  the  chief  part  of  the  evidence  against  Aram;  the 
minor  points  we  have  omitted,  and  also  such  as,  like  that  of 


EUGENE   ARAM.  385 

Aram's  hostess,  would  merely  have  repeated  what  the  reader 
knew  before. 

And  now  closed  the  criminatory  evidence ;  and  now  the  pris- 
oner was  asked  the  thrilling  and  awful  question,  What  he 
had  to  say  in  his  own  behalf  ?  Till  now,  Aram  had  not 
changed  his  posture  or  his  countenance;  his  dark  and  pierc 
ing  eye  had  for  one  instant  fixed  on  each  witness  that  appeared 
against  him,  and  then  dropped  its  gaze  upon  the  ground.  But 
at  this  moment  a  faint  hectic  flushed  his  cheek,  and  he  seemed 
to  gather  and  knit  himself  up  for  defence.  He  glanced  round 
the  court  as  if  to  see  what  had  been  the  impression  created 
against  him.  His  eye  rested  on  the  gray  locks  of  Eowland 
Lester,  who,  looking  doAvn,  had  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands.  But  beside  that  venerable  form  was  the  still  and  mar- 
ble face  of  Madeline;  and  even  at  that  distance  from  him, 
Aram  perceived  how  intent  was  the  hushed  suspense  of  her 
emotions.  But  when  she  caught  his  eye, — that  eye  which, 
even  at  such  a  moment,  beamed  unutterable  love,  pity,  regret 
for  her, —  a  wild,  a  con\Tilsive  smile  of  encouragement,  of 
anticipated  triumph,  broke  the  repose  of  her  colorless  features, 
and  suddenly  dying  away,  left  her  lips  apart,  in  that  expres- 
sion which  the  great  masters  of  old,  faithful  to  nature,  give 
alike  to  the  struggle  of  hope  and  the  pause  of  terror. 

"My  lord,"  began  Aram,  in  that  remarkable  defence  still 
extant,  and  still  considered  as  wholly  unequalled  from  the 
lips  of  one  defending  his  own  cause, —  "my  lord,  I  know  not 
whether  it  is  of  right,  or  through  some  indulgence  of  your 
lordship,  that  I  am  allowed  the  liberty  at  this  bar,  and  at  this 
time,  to  attempt  a  defence,  incapable  and  uninstructed  as  I 
am  to  speak.  Since,  while  I  see  so  many  eyes  upon  me,  so 
numerous  and  awful  a  concourse,  fixed  with  attention,  and 
filled  with  I  know  not  what  expectancy,  I  labor,  not  with 
guilt,  my  lord,  but  with  perplexity.  For  having  never  seen  a 
court  but  this,  being  wholly  unacquainted  with  law,  the  cus- 
toms of  the  bar,  and  all  judiciary  proceedings,  I  fear  I  shall 
be  so  little  capable  of  speaking  with  propriety  that  it  might 
reasonably  be  expected  to  exceed  my  hope  should  I  be  able  to 
speak  at  all. 

25 


886  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"  I  have  heard,  my  lord,  the  indictment  read,  wherein  I  find 
myself  charged  with  the  highest  of  human  crimes.  You  will 
grant  me,  then,  your  patience  if  I,  single  and  unskilful,  des- 
titute of  friends  and  unassisted  by  counsel,  attempt  something, 
perhaps,  like  argument,  in  my  defence.  What  I  have  to  say 
will  be  but  short,  and  that  brevity  may  be  the  best  part  of  it. 

"  My  lord,  the  tenor  of  my  life  contradicts  this  indictment. 
Who  can  look  back  over  what  is  known  of  my  former  years 
and  charge  me  with  one  vice,  one  offence  ?  No !  I  concerted 
not  schemes  of  fraud,  projected  no  violence,  injured  no  man's 
property  or  person.  My  days  were  honestly  laborious,  my 
nights  intensely  studious.  This  egotism  is  not  presumptuous, 
is  not  unreasonable.  What  man,  after  a  temperate  use  of  life, 
a  series  of  thinking  and  acting  regularly,  without  one  single 
deviation  from  a  sober  and  even  tenor  of  conduct,  ever  plunged 
into  the  depth  of  crime  precipitately  and  at  once  ?  Mankind 
are  not  instantaneously  corrupted.  Villany  is  always  pro- 
gressive. We  decline  from  right  not  suddenly,  but  step  after 
step. 

"  If  my  life  in  general  contradicts  the  indictment,  my  health, 
at  that  time  in  particular,  contradicts  it  more.  A  little  time 
before,  I  had  been  confined  to  my  bed;  I  had  suffered  under  a 
long  and  severe  disorder.  The  distemper  left  me  but  slowly, 
and  in  part.  So  far  from  being  well  at  the  time  I  am  charged 
with  this  fact,  I  never,  to  this  day,  perfectly  recovered.  Could 
a  person  in  this  condition  execute  violence  against  another  ? 
—  I,  feeble  and  valetudinary,  with  no  inducement  to  engage, 
no  ability  to  accomplish,  no  weapon  wherewith  to  perpetrate 
such  a  fact, —  without  interest,  without  power,  without  mo- 
tives, without  means! 

"My  lord,  Clarke  disappeared,  —  true;  but  is  that  a  proof  of 
his  death  ?  The  fallibility  of  all  conclusions  of  such  a  sort, 
from  such  a  circumstance,  is  too  obvious  to  require  instances. 
One  instance  is  before  you;  this  very  castle  affords  it. 

"  In  June,  1757,  William  Thompson,  amidst  all  the  vigilance 
of  this  place,  in  open  daylight  and  double-ironed,  made  his 
escape.  Notwithstanding  an  immediate  inquiry  set  on  foot, 
notwithstanding  all  advertisements,  all  search,  he  was  never 


EUGENE   ARAM.  387 

seen  or  heard  of  since.  If  this  man  escaped  unseen,  through 
all  these  difficulties,  how  easy  for  Clarke,  whom  no  difficul- 
ties opposed!  Yet  what  would  be  thought  of  a  prosecution 
commenced  against  any  one  seen  last  with  Thompson  ? 

"These  bones  are  discovered!  Where?  Of  all  places  in 
the  world,  can  we  think  of  any  one,  except,  indeed,  the 
church-yard,  where  there  is  so  great  a  certainty  of  finding 
human  bones  as  a  hermitage  ?  In  time  past  the  hermitage 
was  a  place,  not  only  of  religious  retirement,  but  of  burial. 
And  it  has  scarce,  or  never,  been  heard  of  but  that  every  cell 
now  known  contains  or  contained  these  relics  of  humanity, 
some  mutilated,  some  entire.  Give  me  leave  to  remind  your 
lordship  that  here  sat  solitary  sanctity,  and  here  the  her- 
mit and  the  anchorite  hoped  that  repose  for  their  bones  when 
dead  they  here  enjoyed  when  living.  I  glance  over  a  few  of 
the  many  evidences  that  these  cells  were  used  as  repositories 
of  the  dead,  and  enumerate  a  few  of  the  many  caves  similar  in 
origin  to  St.  Robert's,  in  which  human  bones  have  been  found." 
Here  the  prisoner  instanced,  with  remarkable  felicity,  several 
places  in  which  bones  had  been  found,  vmder  circumstances 
and  in  spots  analogous  to  those  in  point.  ^  And  the  reader 
who  will  remember  that  it  is  the  great  principle  of  the  law 
that  no  man  can  be  condemned  for  murder  unless  the  remains 
of  the  deceased  be  found,  will  perceive  at  once  how  important 
this  point  was  to  the  prisoner's  defence.  After  concluding 
his  instances  with  two  facts  of  skeletons  found  in  fields  in  the 
vicinity  of  Knaresborough,   he  burst  forth, — 

"  Is,  then,  the  invention  of  those  bones  forgotten,  or  indus- 
triously concealed,  that  the  discovery  of  these  in  question 
may  appear  the  more  extraordinary  ?  Extraordinary,  yet  how 
common  an  event!  Every  place  conceals  such  remains.  In 
fields,  in  hills,  in  highway  sides,  on  wastes,  on  commons,  lie 
frequent  and  unsuspected  bones.  And  mark, —  no  example, 
perhaps,  occurs  of  more  than  one  skeleton  being  found  in  one 
cell.  Here  you  find  but  one,  agreeable  to  the  peculiarity  of 
every  known  cell  in  Britain.  Had  two  skeletons  been  discov- 
ered, then  alone  might  the  fact  have  seemed  suspicious  and 
1  See  his  published  defence. 


388  EUGENE   ARAM. 

uncommon.  What!  Have  we  forgotten  how  difficult,  as  in 
the  case  of  Perkm  Warbeck  and  Lambert  Symn«ll,  it  has  been 
sometimes  to  identify  the  living,  and  shall  we  now  assign 
personality  to  bones, —  bones  which  may  belong  to  either  sex  ? 
How  know  you  that  this  is  even  the  skeleton  of  a  man  ?  But 
another  skeleton  was  discovered  by  some  laborer:  was  not 
that  skeleton  averred  to  be  Clarke's,  full  as  confidently  as 
this  ? 

"My  lord,  my  lord,  must  some  of  the  living  be  made  an- 
swerable for  all  the  bones  that  earth  has  concealed  and  chance 
exposed  ?  The  skull  that  has  been  produced  has  been  declared 
fractured.  But  who  can  surely  tell  whether  it  was  the  cause 
or  the  consequence  of  death  ?  In  May,  1732,  the  remains  of 
William  Lord  Archbishop  of  this  province  were  taken  up  by 
permission  in  their  cathedral:  the  bones  of  the  skull  were 
found  broken,  as  these  are;  yet  he  died  by  no  violence,  by  no 
blow  that  could  have  caused  that  fracture.  Let  it  be  consid- 
ered how  easily  the  fracture  on  the  skull  is  accounted  for.  At 
the  dissolution  of  the  religious  houses  the  ravages  of  the  times 
affected  both  the  living  and  the  dead.  In  search  after  imagi- 
nary treasures,  coffins  were  broken,  graves  and  vaults  dug  open, 
monuments  ransacked,  shrines  demolished;  Parliament  itself 
was  called  in  to  restrain  these  violations.  And  now,  are  the 
depredations,  the  iniquities,  of  those  times  to  be  visited  on 
this  ?  But  here,  above  all,  was  a  castle  vigorously  besieged; 
every  spot  around  was  the  scene  of  a  sally,  a  conflict,  a  flight, 
a  pursuit.  Where  the  slaughtered  fell,  there  were  they  buried. 
What  place  is  not  burial-earth  in  war  ?  How  many  liones  must 
still  remain  in  the  vicinity  of  that  siege,  for  futurity  to  dis- 
cover! Can  you,  then,  with  so  many  probable  circumstances, 
choose  the  one  least  probable  ?  Can  you  impute  to  the  living 
what  zeal  in  its  fury  may  have  done;  what  nature  may  have 
taken  off  and  piety  interred;  or  what  war  alone  may  have  de- 
stroyed,  alone  deposited  ? 

"And  now  glance  over  the  circumstantial  evidence, —  how 
weak,  how  frail !  I  almost  scorn  to  allude  to  it.  I  will  not 
condescend  to  f/i'weZ/  upon  it.  The  witness  of  one  man,  —  ar- 
raigned himself!     Is  there  no  chance  that,   to  save  his  own 


EUGENE   ARAM.  389 

life,  lie  migM  conspire  against  mine;  no  chance  that  he  might 
have  committed  tins  murder,  (/"murder  hath  indeed  been  done; 
tliat  conscience  betrayed  to  his  first  exclamation;  that  craft 
suggested  his  throwing  that  guilt  on  me,  to  the  knowledge  of 
which  he  had  unwittingly  confessed  ?  He  declares  that  he 
saw  me  strike  Clarke,  that  he  saw  him  fall;  yet  he  utters  no 
cry,  no  reproof.  He  calls  for  no  aid;  he  returns  quietly  home; 
he  declares  that  he  knows  not  what  became  of  the  body,  yet 
he  tells  where  the  body  is  laid.  He  declares  that  he  went 
straight  home,  and  alone;  yet  the  woman  with  whom  I  lodged 
deposes  that  Houseman  and  I  returned  to  my  house  in  com- 
pany together.  What  evidence  is  this,  and  from  whom  does 
it  come  ?  Ask  yourselves.  As  for  the  rest  of  the  evidence, 
what  does  it  amount  to  ?  The  watchman  sees  Houseman 
leave  my  house  at  night.  What  more  probable,  but  what  less 
connected  with  the  murder,  real  or  supposed,  of  Clarke  ?  Some 
pieces  of  clothing  are  found  buried  in  my  garden:  but  how 
can  it  be  shown  that  they  belonged  to  Clarke  ?  Who  can 
swear  to,  who  can  prove  anything  so  vague  ?  And  if  found 
there,  even  if  belonging  to  Clarke,  what  proof  that  they  were 
there  deposited  by  me  ?  How  likely  that  the  real  criminal 
may,  in  the  dead  of  night,  have  preferred  any  spot  rather  than 
that  round  his  own  home,  to  conceal  the  evidence  of  his  crime  ? 
"How  impotent  such  evidence  as  this,  and  how  poor,  how 
precarious,  even  the  strongest  of  mere  circumstantial  evidence 
invariably  is!  Let  it  rise  to  probability,  to  the  strongest  de- 
gree of  probability,  it  is  but  probability  still.  Recollect  the 
case  of  the  two  Harrisons,  recorded  by  Dr.  Howell :  both  suf- 
fered on  circumstantial  evidence  on  account  of  the  disappear- 
ance of  a  man,  who,  like  Clarke,  contracted  debts,  borrowed 
money,  and  went  off  unseen.  And  this  man  returned  several 
years  after  their  execution.  Why  remind  you  of  Jacques  du 
Moulin,  in  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second;  why  of  the  un- 
happy Coleman,  convicted,  though  afterwards  found  innocent, 
and  whose  children  perished  for  want  because  the  world  be- 
lieved the  father  guilty  ?  Why  should  I  mention  the  perjury 
of  Smith,  who,  admitted  king's  evidence,  screened  himself  by 
accusing  Fainloth  and  Loveday  of  the  murder  of  Dunn  ?     The 


S90  EUGENE   ARAM. 

first  was  executed,  the  second  was  about  to  share  the  same 
fate,  when  the  perjury  of  Smith  was  incontrovertibly  proved. 

"And  now,  my  lord,  having  endeavored  to  show  that  the 
whole  of  this  charge  is  altogether  repugnant  to  every  part  of 
my  life ;  that  it  is  inconsistent  with  my  condition  of  health 
about  that  time ;  that  no  rational  inference  of  the  death  of  a 
person  can  be  drawn  from  his  disappearance;  that  hermitages 
were  the  constant  repositories  of  the  bones  of  the  recluse; 
that  the  proofs  of  these  are  well  authenticated;  that  the  revo- 
lution in  religion  or  the  fortunes  of  war  have  mangled  or  bur- 
ied the  dead;  that  the  strongest  circumstantial  evidence  is 
often  lamentably  fallacious ;  that  in  my  case  that  evidence,  so 
far  from  being  strong,  is  weak,  disconnected,  contradictory, 
—  what  remains?  A  conclusion  perhaps  no  less  reasonably 
than  impatiently  wished  for.  I  at  last,  after  nearly  a  year's 
confinement,  equal  to  either  fortune,  intrust  myself  to  the 
candor,  the  justice,  the  humanity  of  your  lordship,  and  to 
yours,   my  countrymen,  gentlemen  of  the  jury." 

The  prisoner  ceased;  and  the  painful  and  choking  sensa- 
tions of  sympathy,  compassion,  regret,  admiration,  all  unit- 
ing, all  mellowing  into  one  fearful  hope  for  his  acquittal, 
made  themselves  felt  through  the  crowded  court. 

In  two  persons  only  an  uneasy  sentiment  remained, —  a  sen- 
timent that  the  prisoner  had  not  completed  that  which  they 
would  have  asked  from  him.  The  one  was  Lester.  He  had 
expected  a  more  warm,  a  more  earnest,  though  perhaps  a  less 
ingenious  and  artful,  defence.  He  had  expected  Aram  to 
dwell  far  more  on  the  improbable  and  contradictory  evidence 
of  Houseman;  and  above  all,  to  have  explained  away  all  that 
was  still  left  unaccounted  for  in  his  acquaintance  with  Clarke 
(as  we  will  still  call  the  deceased),  and  the  allegation  that  he 
had  gone  out  with  him  on  the  fatal  night  of  the  disappearance 
of  the  latter.  At  every  word  of  the  prisoner's  defence  he  had 
waited  almost  breathlessly,  in  the  hope  that  the  next  sentence 
would  begin  an  explanation  or  denial  on  this  point;  and  when 
Aram  ceased,  a  chill,  a  depression,  a  disappointment,  remained 
vaguely  on  his  mind.  Yet  so  lightly  and  so  haughtily  had 
Aram  approached  and  glanced  over  the  immediate  evidence  of 


EUGENE   ARAM.  391 

the  witnesses  against  him  that  his  silence  here  might  have 
been  but  the  natural  result  of  a  disdain  that  belonged  essen- 
tially to  his  calm  and  proud  character.  The  other  person  we 
referred  to,  and  whom  his  defence  had  not  impressed  with  a 
belief  in  its  truth  equal  to  an  admiration  for  its  skill,  was  one 
far  more  important  in  deciding  the  prisoner's  fate, —  it  was 
the  judge! 

But  Madeline  —  alas,  alas !  how  sanguine  is  a  woman's 
heart  when  the  innocence,  the  fate,  of  the  one  she  loves  is 
concerned !  A  radiant  flush  broke  over  a  face  so  colorless  be- 
fore ;  and  with  a  joyous  look,  a  kindled  eye,  a  lofty  brow,  she 
turned  to  Ellinor,  pressed  her  hand  in  silence,  and  once  more 
gave  up  her  whole  soul  to  the  dread  procedure  of  the  court. 

The  judge  now  began.  It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  we 
have  no  minute  and  detailed  memorial  of  the  trial,  except 
only  the  prisoner's  defence.  The  summing  up  of  the  judge 
was  considered  at  that  time  scarcely  less  remarkable  than  the 
speech  of  the  prisoner.  He  stated  the  evidence  with  peculiar 
care  and  at  great  length  to  the  jury.  He  observed  how  the 
testimony  of  the  other  deponents  confirmed  that  of  Houseman; 
and  then,  touching  on  the  contradictory  parts  of  the  latter,  he 
made  them  understand  how  natural,  how  inevitable,  was  some 
such  contradiction  in  a  witness  who  had  not  only  to  give  evi- 
dence against  another,  but  to  refrain  from  criminating  him- 
self. There  could  be  no  doubt  but  that  Houseman  was  an 
accomplice  in  the  crime ;  and  all  therefore  that  seemed  improb- 
able in  his  giving  no  alarm  when  the  deed  Avas  done,  etc.,  was 
easily  rendered  natural  and  reconcilable  with  the  other  parts 
of  his  evidence.  Commenting  then  on  the  defence  of  the 
prisoner  (who,  as  if  disdaining  to  rely  on  aught  save  his  own 
genius  or  his  own  innocence,  had  called  no  witnesses,  as  he 
had  employed  no  counsel),  and  eulogizing  its  eloquence  and 
art  till  he  destroyed  their  effect,  by  guarding  the  jury  against 
that  impression  which  eloquence  and  art  produce  in  defiance 
of  simple  fact,  he  contended  that  Aram  had  yet  alleged  noth- 
ing to  invalidate  the  positive  evidence  against  him. 

I  have  often  heard,  from  men  accustomed  to  courts  of  law, 
that  nothing  is  more  marvellous  than  the  sudden  change  in 


392  EUGENE   ARAM. 

the  mind  of  a  jury  which  the  summing  up  of  the  judge  can 
produce ;  and  in  the  present  instance  it  was  like  magic.  That 
fatal  look  of  a  common  intelligence,  of  a  common  assent,  was 
exchanged  among  the  doomers  of  the  prisoner's  life  and  death 
as  the  judge  concluded. 

•  •••••• 

They  found  the  prisoner  guilty. 

The  judge  drew  on  the  black  cap. 

Aram  received  his  sentence  in  profound  composure.  Before 
he  left  the  bar  he  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and 
looked  slowly  around  the  court  with  that  thrilling  and  almost 
sublime  unmovedness  of  aspect  which  belonged  to  him  alone 
of  all  men,  and  which  was  rendered  yet  more  impressive  by  a 
smile  —  slight,  but  eloquent  beyond  all  words  —  of  a  soul  col- 
lected in  itself.  No  forced  and  convulsive  effort  vainly  mask- 
ing the  terror  or  the  pang,  no  mockery  of  self  that  would 
mimic  contempt  for  others,  but  more  in  majesty  than  bitter- 
ness; rather  as  daring  fate  than  defying  the  judgment  of 
others, —  rather  as  if  he  wrapped  himself  in  the  independence 
of  a  quiet,  than  the  disdain  of  a  despairing,  heart. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE   DEATH. THE    PRISON. AN    INTERVIEW. ITS    RESULT. 

.  .  .  Lay  her  i'  the  earth  : 

And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 

May  violets  spring! 

Sir,  in  my  heart  there  was  a  kind  of  fighting, 
That  would  not  let  me  sleep.  —  Hamlet. 

"Bear  with  me  a  little  longer,"  said  Madeline;  "I  shall  be 
well,  quite  well,  presently." 

Ellinor  let  down  the  carriage  window  to  admit  the  air;  and 
she  took  the  occasion  to  tell  the  coachman  to  drive  faster. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  393 

There  was  that  change  in  Madeline's  voice  which  alarmed 
her. 

"How  noble  was  his  look!  you  saw  him  smile!  "  continued 
Madeline,  talking  to  herself.  "And  they  will  murder  him 
after  all!  Let  me  see:  this  day  week, —  ay,  ere  this  day  week 
we  shall  meet  again." 

"Faster;  for  God's  sake,  Ellinor,  tell  them  to  drive  faster! " 
cried  Lester,  as  he  felt  the  form  that  leaned  on  his  bosom  wax 
heavier  and  heavier.  They  sped  on;  the  house  was  in  sight, 
that  lonely  and  cheerless  house, —  not  their  sweet  home  at 
Grassdale,  with  the  ivy  round  its  porch  and  the  quiet  church 
behind.  The  sun  was  setting  slowly,  and  Ellinor  drew  the 
blind  to  shade  the  glare  from  her  sister's  eye. 

Madeline  felt  the  kindness,  and  smiled.  Ellinor  wiped  her 
eyes  and  tried  to  smile  again.  The  carriage  stopped,  and 
Madeline  was  lifted  out;  she  stood,  supported  by  her  father 
and  Ellinor,  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold.  She  looked  on 
the  golden  sun  and  the  gentle  earth,  and  the  little  motes 
dancing  in  the  western  ray ;  all  was  steeped  in  quiet,  and  full 
of  the  peace  and  tranquillity  of  the  pastoral  life.  "No,  no," 
she  muttered,  grasping  her  father's  hand.  "How  is  this? 
This  is  not  his  hand!  Ah,  no,  no;  I  am  not  with  him! 
Father,"  she  added,  in  a  louder  and  deeper  voice,  rising  from 
his  breast,  and  standing  alone  and  unaided,  "Father,  bury 
this  little  packet  with  me, —  they  are  his  letters;  do  not  break 
the  seal,  —  and  —  and  tell  him  that  I  never  felt  how  deeply  I 
—  loved  him  —  till  all  —  the  world  —  had  —  deserted  him!  " 

She  uttered  a  faint  cry  of  pain,  and  fell  at  once  to  the 
ground ;  she  lived  a  few  hours  longer,  but  never  made  speech 
or  sign,  or  evinced  token  of  life  b\it  its  breath,  which  died  at 
last  gradually,   imperceptibly,   away. 

On  the  following  evening  Walter  obtained  entrance  to 
Aram's  cell:  that  morning  the  prisoner  had  seen  Lester;  that 
morning  he  had  heard  of  Madeline's  death.  He  had  shed  no 
tear;  he  had,  in  the  affecting  language  of  Scripture,  "turned 
his  face  to  the  wall;  "  none  had  seen  his  emotions:  yet  Lester 
felt  in  that  bitter  interview  that  his  daughter  was  duly 
mourned. 


394  EUGENE   ARAM. 

Aram  did  not  lift  his  eyes  when  Walter  was  admitted,  and 
the  young  man  stood  almost  at  his  knee  before  he  perceived 
him.  Aram  then  looked  up,  and  they  gazed  on  each  other  foi 
a  moment,  but  without  speaking,  till  Walter  said  in  a  hollow 
voice, — 

"  Eugene  Aram ! " 

"Ay!" 

"Madeline  Lester  is  no  more." 

"I  have  heard  it!  I  am  reconciled.    Better  now  than  later." 

"  Aram !  "  said  Walter,  in  a  tone  trembling  with  emotion, 
and  passionately  clasping  his  hands,  "I  entreat,  I  implore 
you,  at  this  awful  time,  if  it  be  within  your  power  to  lift  from 
my  heart  a  load  that  weighs  it  to  the  dust,  that,  if  left  there, 
will  make  me  through  life  a  crushed  and  miserable  man, —  I 
implore  you,  in  the  name  of  common  humanity,  by  your  hopes 
of  heaven,  to  remove  it!  The  time  now  has  irrevocably  passed 
when  your  denial  or  your  confession  could  alter  your  doom; 
your  days  are  numbered ;  there  is  no  hope  of  reprieve :  I  im- 
plore you,  tlien,  if  you  were  led  —  I  will  not  ask  how,  or 
wherefore  —  to  the  execution  of  the  crime  for  the  charge  of 
which  you  die,  to  say,  to  whisper,  to  me  but  one  word  of  con- 
fession, and  I,  the  sole  child  of  the  murdered  man,  will  for- 
give you  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul." 

Walter  paused,  unable  to  proceed. 

Aram's  brow  worked;  he  turned  aside;  he  made  no  an- 
swer; his  head  dropped  on  his  bosom,  and  his  eyes  were 
unmovedly  fixed  on  the  earth. 

"Reflect,"  continued  Walter,  recovering  himself,  "reflect! 
I  have  been  the  involuntary  instrument  in  bringing  you  to 
this  awful  fate,  in  destroying  the  happiness  of  my  own  house, 
in  —  in  —  in  breaking  the  heart  of  the  woman  whom  I  adored 
even  as  a  boy.  If  you  be  innocent,  what  a  dreadful  remem- 
brance is  left  to  me!  Be  merciful,  Aram,  be  merciful!  and 
if  this  deed  was  done  by  your  hand,  say  to  me  but  one  word 
to  remove  the  terrible  uncertainty  that  now  harrows  up  my 
being.  W^hat  now  is  earth,  is  man,  is  opinion,  to  you  ?  God 
onlj^  now  can  judge  you.  The  eye  of  God  reads  your  heart 
while  I  speak;  and  in  the  awful  hour  when  eternity  opens  to 


EUGENE   ARAM.  395 

you,  if  the  guilt  lias  been  indeed  committed,  think,  oh !  think 
how  much  lighter  will  be  your  offence  if,  by  vanquishing  the 
stubborn  heart,  you  can  relieve  a  human  being  from  a  doubt 
that  otherwise  will  make  the  curse,  the  horror  of  an  existence. 
Aram,  Aram,  if  the  father's  death  came  from  you,  shall 
the  life  of  the  son  be  made  a  burden  to  him  through  you 
also  ?  " 

"What  would  you  have  of  me?  Speak!"  said  Aram,  but 
without  lifting  his  face  from  his  breast. 

"Much  of  your  nature  belies  this  crime.  You  are  wise, 
calm,  beneficent  to  the  distressed.  Revenge,  passion,  nay, 
the  sharp  pangs  of  hunger,  may  have  urged  you  to  one  crim- 
inal deed;  but  your  soul  is  not  wholly  hardened, —  nay,  I 
think  I  can  so  far  trust  you  that  if  at  this  dread  "moment  (the 
clay  of  Madeline  Lester  scarce  yet  cold,  woe  busy  and  soften- 
ing at  your  breast,  and  the  son  of  the  murdered  dead  before 
you),  if  at  this  moment  you  can  lay  your  hand  on  your  heart, 
and  say,  '  Before  God,  and  at  peril  of  my  soul,  I  am  innocent 
of  this  deed,'  I  will  depart,  I  will  believe  you,  and  bear,  as 
bear  I  may,  the  reflection  that  I  have  been  one  of  the  uncon- 
scious agents  in  condemning  to  a  fearful  death  an  innocent 
man!  If  innocent  in  this,  how  good,  how  perfect,  in  all  else! 
But  if  you  cannot  at  so  dark  a  crisis  take  that  oath,  then,  oh 
then!  be  just,  be  generous,  even  in  guilt,  and  let  me  not  be 
haunted  throughout  life  by  the  spectre  of  a  ghastly  and  rest- 
less doubt.     Speak!  oh,  speak!" 

Well,  well  may  we  judge  how  crushing  must  have  been  that 
doubt  m  the  breast  of  one  naturally  bold  and  fiery  when  it 
thus  humbled  the  very  son  of  the  murdered  man  to  forget 
wrath  and  vengeance  and  descend  to  prayer !  But  Walter  had 
heard  the  defence  of  Aram ;  he  had  marked  his  mien ;  not  once 
in  that  trial  had  he  taken  his  eyes  from  the  prisoner;  and  he 
had  felt,  like  a  bolt  of  ice  through  his  heart,  that  the  sentence 
passed  on  the  accused,  his  judgment  could  not  have  passed! 
How  dreadful  must,  then,  have  been  the  state  of  his  mind 
when,  repairing  to  Lester's  house,  he  found  it  the  house  of 
death, — the  pure,  the  beautiful  spirit  gone;  the  father  mourn- 
ing for  his  child,  and  not  to  be  comforted;  and  Ellinor —    No; 


396  EUGENE  ARAM. 

scenes  like  these,  thoughts  like  these,  pluck  the  pride  from  a 
man's  heart! 

*'  Walter  Lester, "  said  Aram,  after  a  pause,  but  raising  his 
head  with  dignity,  tliough  on  the  features  there  was  but  one 
expression, — woe,  unutterable  woe,  "Walter  Lester,  I  had 
thought  to  quit  life  with  my  tale  untold.  But  you  have  not 
appealed  to  me  in  vain;  I  tear  the  self  from  my  heart, —  I  re- 
nounce the  last  haughty  dream  in  which  I  wrapped  myself  from 
the  ills  around  me.  You  shall  learn  all,  and  judge  accord- 
ingly. But  to  your  ear  the  tale  can  scarce  be  told;  the  son 
cannot  hear  in  silence  that  which,  unless  I  too  unjustly,  too 
wholly  condemn  myself,  I  must  say  of  the  dead.  But  time," 
continued  Aram,  mutteringly,  and  with  his  eyes  on  vacancy, 
"time  does  not  press  too  fast.  Better  let  the  hand  speak  than 
the  tongue.  Yes,  the  day  of  execution  is  —  ay,  ay  —  two  days 
yet  to  it  —  to-morrow  ?  No !  Young  man, "  he  said  abruptly, 
turning  to  Walter,  "on  the  day  after  to-morrow,  about  seven 
in  the  evening,  —  the  eve  before  that  morn  fated  to  be  my  last, 
—  come  to  me.  At  that  time  I  will  place  in  your  hands  a 
paper  containing  the  whole  history  that  connects  myself  with 
your  father.  On  the  word  of  a  man  on  the  brink  of  another 
world,  no  truth  that  imports  your  interest  therein  shall  be 
omitted.  But  read  it  not  till  I  am  no  more;  and  when  read, 
confide  the  tale  to  none  till  Lester's  gray  hairs  have  gone  to 
the  grave.  This  swear;  'tis  an  oath  difficult  perhaps  to  keep, 
but  —  " 

"  As  my  Redeemer  lives,  I  will  swear  to  both  conditions !  " 
cried  Walter,  with  a  solemn  fervor.  "But  tell  me  now,  at 
least  —  " 

"Ask  me  no  more,"  interrupted  Aram,  in  his  turn.  "The 
time  is  near  when  you  will  know  all;  tarry  that  time,  and 
leave  me!     Yes,   leave  me  now,   at  once;    leave  me." 

To  dwell  lingeringly  over  those  passages  which  excite  pain 
without  satisfying  curiosity,  is  scarcely  the  duty  of  the  drama, 
or  of  that  province  even  nobler  than  the  drama, —  for  it  re- 
quires minuter  care,  indulges  in  more  complete  description, 
yields  to  more  elaborate  investigation  of  motives,  commands  a 
greater  variety  of  chords  in  the  human  heart, —  to  which,  with 


EUGENE  ARAM.  397 

poor  and  feeble  power  for  so  high,  yet  so  ill-appreciated  a 
task  we  now,    not  irreverently  if  rashly,   aspire! 

We  glance  not  around  us  at  the  chamber  of  death;  at  the 
broken  heart  of  Lester;  at  the  twofold  agony  of  his  surviving 
child, —  the  agony  which  mourns  and  yet  seeks  to  console  an- 
other; the  mixed  emotions  of  Walter,  in  which  an  unsleeping 
eagerness  to  learn  the  fearful  all  formed  the  main  part;  the 
solitary  cell  and  solitary  heart  of  the  convicted, —  we  glance 
not  at  these;  we  pass  at  once  to  the  evening  in  which  Aram 
again  saw  Walter  Lester,   and  for  the  last  time. 

"You  are  come,  punctual  to  the  hour,"  said  he,  in  a  low, 
clear  voice:  "I  have  not  forgotten  my  word;  the  fulfilment 
of  that  promise  has  been  a  victory  over  myself  which  no  man 
can  appreciate :  but  I  owed  it  to  you.  I  have  discharged  the 
debt.  Enough !  I  have  done  more  than  1  at  first  purposed.  I 
have  extended  my  narration,  but  superficially  in  some  parts, 
over  my  life, —  that  prolixity  perhaps  I  owed  to  myself. 
Remember  your  promise:  this  seal  is  not  broken  till  the  pulse 
is  stilled  in  the  hand  which  now  gives  you  these  papers!  " 

Walter  renewed  his  oath,  and  Aram,  pausing  for  a  moment, 
continued  in  an  altered  and  softening  voice, — 

"Be  kind  to  Lester;  soothe,  console  him;  never  by  a  hint 
let  him  think  otherwise  of  me  than  he  does.  For  his  sake 
more  than  mine  I  ask  this.  Venerable,  kind  old  man!  the 
warmth  of  human  affection  has  rarely  glowed  for  me.  To  the 
few  who  loved  me,  how  deeply  I  have  repaid  the  love!  Bui 
these  are  not  words  to  pass  between  you  and  me.  Farewell! 
Yet  before  we  part,  say  this  much :  whatever  I  have  revealed 
in  this  confession,  whatever  has  been  my  wrong  to  you,  or 
whatever  (a  less  offence)  the  language  I  have  now,  justifying 
myself,  used  to  —  to  your  father  —  say  that  you  grant  me  that 
pardon  which  one  man  may  grant  another." 

"Fully,  cordially,"  said  Walter. 

"  In  the  day  that  for  you  brings  the  death  that  to-morrow 
awaits  me,"  said  Ai-am.  in  a  deep  tone,  "be  that  forgiveness 
accorded  to  yourself!  Farewell.  In  that  untried  variety  of 
being  which  spreads  beyond  us,  who  knows  but  that,  in  our 
several  progress  from  grade  to  grade,  and  world  to  world,  our 


398  EUGENE  ARAM. 

souls,  tliougli  in  far  distant  ages,  may  meet  again, —  one  dim 
and  shadowy  memory  of  this  hour  the  link  between  us !  fare- 
well, farewell !  " 

For  the  reader's  interest  we  think  it  better  (and  certainly 
it  is  more  immediately  in  the  due  course  of  narrative,  if  not 
of  actual  events)  to  lay  at  once  before  him  the  confession  that 
Aram  placed  in  Walter's  hands,  without  waiting  till  that  time 
when  Walter  himself  broke  the  seal  of  a  confession,  not  of 
deeds  alone,  but  of  thoughts  how  wild  and  entangled,  of  feel- 
ings how  strange  and  dark,  of  a  starred  soul  that  had  wan- 
dered from  how  proud  an  orbit  to  what  perturbed  and  unholy 
regions  of  night  and  chaos!  For  me,  I  have  not  sought  to 
derive  the  reader's  interest  from  the  vulgar  sources  that  such 
a  tale  might  have  afforded;  I  have  suffered  him,  almost  from 
the  beginning,  to  pierce  into  Aram's  secret;  and  I  have  pre- 
pared him  for  that  guilt,  with  which  other  narrators  of  this 
story  might  have  only  sought  to  surprise. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE  confession;  and  the  fate. 

In  winter's  tedious  nights  sit  by  the  fire 

Witli  good  old  folks  and  let  them  tell  thee  tales 

Of  woeful  ages  long  ago  betid  ; 

And  ere  thou  bid  good  night,  to  quit  their  griefs, 

Tell  thou  the  lamentable  fall  of  me.  —  Richard  II. 

August,  1759. 
1  WAS  born  at  Ramsgill,  a  little  village  in  ISTetherdale.  My 
family  had  originally  been  of  some  rank;  they  were  formerly 
lords  of  the  town  of  Aram,  on  the  southern  banks  of  the  Tees. 
>)Ut  time  had  humbled  these  pretensions  to  consideration, 
though  they  were  still  fondly  cherished  by  the  inheritors  of 
an  ancient  name  and  idle  but  haughty  recollections.  My 
father  resided  on  a  small  farm,  and  was  especially  skilful  in 
horticulture, —  a  taste  I  derived  from  him.    When  I  was  about 


EUGENE   ARAM.  399 

thirteen,  the  deep  and  intense  passion  that  has  made  the  demon 
of  my  life,  first  stirred  palpably  within  me.  I  had  always 
been,  from  my  cradle,  of  a  solitary  disposition,  and  inclined 
to  revery  and  musing;  these  traits  of  character  heralded  the 
love  that  now  seized  me, — the  love  of  knowledge.  Oppor- 
tunity or  accident  first  directed  my  attention  to  the  abstruser 
sciences.  I  poured  my  soul  over  that  noble  study  which  is 
the  best  foundation  of  all  true  discovery;  and  the  success  I 
met  with  soon  turned  my  pursuits  into  more  alluring  chan- 
nels. History,  poetry, —  the  mastery  of  the  past,  and  the 
spell  that  admits  us  into  the  visionary  world, —  took  the 
place  which  lines  and  numbers  had  done  before.  I  became 
gradually  more  and  more  rapt  and  solitary  in  my  habits; 
knowledge  assumed  a  yet  more  lovely  and  bewitching  charac- 
ter, and  every  day  the  passion  to  attain  it  increased  upon  me. 
I  do  not  —  I  have  not  now  the  heart  to  do  it  —  enlarge  upon 
what  I  acquired  without  assistance,  and  with  labor  sweet  in 
proportion  to  its  intensity.-'  The  world,  the  creation,  all 
things  that  lived,  moved,  and  were,  became  to  me  objects 
contributing  to  one  passionate  and,  I  fancied,  one  exalted  end. 
I  suffered  the  lowlier  pleasures  of  life,  and  the  charms  of  its 
more  common  ties,  to  glide  away  from  me  untasted  and  unfelt. 
As  you  read,  in  the  East,  of  men  remaining  motionless  for 
days  together,  with  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  heavens,  my 
mind,  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  things  above  its 
reach,  had  no  sight  of  what  passed  around.  jMy  parents  died, 
and  I  was  an  orphan.  I  had  no  home  and  no  wealth;  but 
wherever  the  field  contained  a  flower,  or  the  heavens  a  star, 
there  was  matter  of  thought,  and  food  for  deliglit,  to  me.  I 
wandered  alone  for  months  together,  seldom  sleeping  but  in 
the  open  air,  and  shunning  the  human  form  as  that  part  of 
God's  works  from  which  I  could  learn  the  least.  I  came  to 
Knaresborough;  the  beauty  of  the  country,  a  facility  in  ac- 
quiring books  from  a  neighboring  library  that  was  open  to  me, 
made  me  resolve  to  settle  there.    And  now,  new  desires  opened 

1  We  learn  from  a  letter  of  Eugene  Aram,  now  extant,  that  his  method  of 
acquiring  ttie  learned  languages  was  to  linger  over  five  lines  at  a  time,  and 
never  to  quit  a  passage  till  he  thought  he  had  comprehended  its  meaning. 


400  EUGENE   ARAM. 

upon  me  with  new  stores, —  I  became  haunted  with  the  ambi- 
tion to  enlighten  and  instruct  my  race.  At  first  I  had  loved 
knowledge  solely  for  itself;  I  now  saw  afar  an  object  grander 
than  knowledge.  To  what  end,  said  I,  are  these  labors  ? 
Why  do  I  feed  a  lamp  which  consumes  itself  in  a  desert 
place  ?  Why  do  I  heap  up  riches,  without  asking  Avho  shall 
gather  them  ?  I  was  restless  and  discontented.  What  could 
I  do  ?  I  was  friendless;  I  was  strange  to  my  kind;  I  saw  my 
desires  checked  when  their  aim  was  at  the  highest;  all  that 
was  aspiring  in  my  hopes,  and  ardent  in  my  nature,  was 
cramped  and  chilled.  I  exhausted  the  learning  within  my 
reach.  Where,  with  my  appetite  excited,  not  slaked,  was  I, 
destitute  and  penniless,  to  search  for  more  ?  My  abilities, 
by  bowing  them  to  the  lowliest  tasks,  biit  kept  me  from  fam- 
ine :  was  this  to  be  my  lot  forever?  And  all  the  while  I  was 
grinding  down  my  soul  in  order  to  satisfy  the  vile  physical 
wants,  what  golden  hours,  what  glorious  advantages,  what 
openings  into  new  heavens  of  science,  what  chance  of  illumi- 
nating mankind,  were  forever  lost  to  me !  Sometimes,  when 
the  young,  to  whom  I  taught  some  homely  elements  of  know- 
ledge, came  around  me ;  when  they  looked  me  in  the  face  with 
their  laughing  eyes ;  when  (for  they  all  loved  me)  they  told 
me  their  little  pleasures  and  their  petty  sorrows, —  I  have 
wished  that  I  could  have  gone  back  again  into  childhood,  and, 
becoming  as  one  of  them,  enter  into  that  heaven  of  quiet  which 
was  denied  me  now.  Yet  it  was  more  often  with  an  indignant 
than  a  sorrowful  spirit  that  I  looked  upon  my  lot.  For  there 
lay  my  life,  imprisoned  in  penury  as  in  the  walls  of  a  jail. 
Heaven  smiled,  and  earth  blossomed  around;  but  how  scale 
the  stern  barriers, —  how  steal  through  the  inexorable  gate? 
True,  that  by  bodily  labor  I  could  give  food  to  the  body,  —  to 
starve  by  such  labor  the  craving  wants  of  the  mind.  Beg  I 
could  not.  Whenever  lived  the  real  student,  the  true  min- 
ister and  priest  of  Knowledge,  who  was  not  filled  with  the 
lofty  sense  of  the  dignity  of  his  calling  ?  Was  I  to  show  the 
sores  of  my  pride,  and  strip  my  heart  from  its  clothing,  and 
ask  the  dull  fools  of  wealth  not  to  let  a  scholar  starve  ?  No! 
He  whom  the  vilest  poverty  ever  stooped  to  this,  may  be  the 


EUGENE   ARAM.  401 

quack,  but  never  the  true  disciple  of  Learning.  What  did  I 
then  ?  I  devoted  the  meanest  part  of  my  knowledge  to  the 
procuring  the  bare  means  of  life;  and  the  knowledge  that 
pierced  to  the  depths  of  earth,  and  numbered  the  stars  of 
heaven, —  why,   that  was  valueless  in  the  market! 

In  Knaresborough,  at  this  time,  I  met  a  distant  relation, 
Richard  Houseman.  Sometimes  in  our  walks  we  encountered 
each  other;  for  he  sought  me,  and  I  could  not  always  avoid 
him.  He  was  a  man  like  myself,  born  to  poverty,  yet  he  had 
always  enjoyed  what  to  him  was  wealth.  This  seemed  a  mys- 
tery to  me;  and  when  we  met,  we  sometimes  conversed  upon 
it.  "You  are  poor,  with  all  your  wisdom,"  said  he.  "I 
know  nothing ;  but  I  am  never  poor.  Why  is  this  ?  The 
world  is  my  treasury.  I  live  upon  my  kind.  Society  is  my 
foe.  Laws  order  me  to  starve;  but  self-preservation  is  an 
instinct  more  sacred  than  society,  and  more  imperious  than 
laws." 

The  audacity  of  his  discourse  revolted  me.  At  first  I  turned 
away  in  disgust;  then  I  stood  and  heard  —  to  ponder  and  in- 
quire. Nothing  so  tasks  the  man  of  books  as  his  first  blunder- 
ing guess  at  the  problems  of  a  guilty  heart!  Houseman  had 
been  a  soldier;  he  had  seen  the  greatest  part  of  Europe;  he 
possessed  a  strong,  shrewd  sense;  he  was  a  villain,  —  but  a 
villain  bold,  adroit,  and  not  then  thoroughly  unredeemed. 
Trouble  seized  me  as  I  heard  him,  and  the  shadow  of  his  life 
stretched  farther  and  darker  over  the  wilderness  of  mine. 
When  Houseman  asked  me,  "Wliat  law  befriended  the  man 
without  money?  To  what  end  I  had  cultivated  my  mind  ?  or 
What  good  the  voice  of  knowledge  could  effect  while  Poverty 
forbade  it  to  be  heard  ?  "  the  answer  died  upon  my  lips.  Then 
I  sought  to  escape  from  these  terrible  doubts.  I  plunged 
again  into  my  books.  I  called  upon  ray  intellect  to  defend, 
and  my  intellect  betrayed  me.  For  suddenly  as  I  pored  over 
my  scanty  books,  a  gigantic  discovery  in  science  gleamed  across 
me.  I  saw  the  means  of  effecting  a  vast  benefit  to  truth  and 
to  man, —  of  adding  a  new  conquest  to  that  only  empire  which 
no  fate  can  overthrow,  and  no  time  wear  away.  And  in  this 
discovery  I  was  stopped  by  the  total  inadequacy  of  my  means. 

2(> 


402  EUGENE   ARAM. 

The  books  and  implements  I  required  were  not  within  my 
reach;  a  handful  of  gold  would  buy  them, —  I  had  not  where- 
withal to  buy  bread  for  the  morrow's  meal!  In  my  solitude 
and  misery  tliis  discovery  haunted  me  like  a  visible  form, — 
it  smiled  upon  me;  a  fiend  that  took  the  aspect  of  beauty,  it 
wooed  me  to  its  charms  that  it  might  lure  my  soul  into  its 
fangs.  I  heard  it  murmur,  "One  bold  deed,  and  I  am  thine! 
Wilt  thou  lie  down  in  the  ditch  and  die  the  dog's  death,  or 
hazard  thy  life  for  the  means  that  may  serve  and  illumine  the 
world  ?  Shrinkest  thou  from  men's  laws,  though  the  laws  bid 
thee  rot  on  their  outskirts  ?  Is  it  not  for  the  service  of  man 
that  thou  shouldst  for  once  break  the  law  on  behalf  of  that 
knowledge  from  which  all  laws  take  their  source  ?  If  thou 
wrongest  the  one,  thou  shalt  repay  it  in  boons  to  the  million. 
For  the  ill  of  an  hour  thou  shalt  give  a  blessing  to  ages!" 
So  spoke  to  me  the  tempter.  And  one  day,  when  the  tempter 
spoke  loudest,  Houseman  met  me,  accompanied  by  a  stranger 
who  had  just  visited  our  town,  for  what  purpose  you  know  al- 
ready. His  name  —  supposed  name  —  was  Clarke.  Man,  lam 
about  to  speak  plainly  of  that  stranger,  —  his  character  and  his 
fate.  And  yet  —  yet  you  are  his  son !  I  would  fain  soften  the 
coloring;  but  I  speak  truth  of  myself,  and  I  must  not,  unless 
I  would  blacken  my  name  yet  deeper  than  it  deserves,  varnish 
truth  when  I  speak  of  others.  Houseman  joined,  and  pre- 
sented to  me  this  person.  From  the  first  I  felt  a  dislike  of 
the  stranger,  which  indeed  it  was  easy  to  account  for.  He 
was  of  a  careless  and  somewhat  insolent  manner.  His  coun- 
tenance was  impressed  with  the  lines  and  characters  of  a  thou- 
sand vices;  you  read  in  the  brow  and  eye  the  history  of  a 
sordid  yet  reckless  life.  His  conversation  was  repellent  to 
me  beyond  expression.  He  uttered  the  meanest  sentiments, 
and  he  chuckled  over  them  as  the  maxims  of  a  superior  sa- 
gacity; he  avowed  himself  a  knave  upon  system,  and  upon 
the  lowest  scale.  To  overreach,  to  •  deceive,  to  elude,  to 
shuffle,  to  fawn,  and  to  lie,  were  the  arts  to  which  he  con- 
fessed with  so  naked  and  cold  a  grossness  that  one  perceived 
that  in  the  long  habits  of  debasement  he  was  unconscious  of 
what  was  not  debased.     Houseman  seemed  to  draw  him  out. 


EUGENE   ARAM.  403 

Clarke  told  us  anecdotes  of  his  rascality,  and  the  distresses  to 
which  it  had  brought  him ;  and  he  finished  by  saying :  "  Yet 
you  see  me  now  almost  rich,  and  wholly  contented.  I  have 
always  been  the  luckiest  of  human  beings ;  no  matter  what  ill 
chances  to-day,  good  turns  up  to-morrow.  I  confess  that  I 
bring  on  myself  the  ill,  and  Providence  sends  me  the  good." 
We  met  accidentally  more  than  once,  and  his  conversation 
was  always  of  the  same  strain,  —  his  luck  and  his  rascality; 
he  had  no  other  theme,  and  no  other  boast.  And  did  not  this 
aid  the  voice  of  the  tempter  ?  Was  it  not  an  ordination  that 
called  upon  men  to  take  fortune  in  their  own  hands  when 
Fate  lavished  her  rewards  on  this  low  and  creeping  thing  that 
could  only  enter  even  Vice  by  its  sewers  and  alleys  ?  Was  it 
worth  while  to  be  virtuous  and  look  on,  while  the  bad  seized 
upon  the  feast  of  life  ?  This  man  was  but  moved  by  the  bas- 
est passions,  the  pettiest  desires;  he  gratified  them,  and  Fate 
smiled  upon  his  daring.  I,  who  had  shut  out  from  my  heart 
the  poor  temptations  of  sense ;  I,  who  fed  only  the  most  glo- 
rious visions,  the  most  august  desires, —  I  denied  myself  their 
fruition,  trembling  and  spellbound  in  the  cerements  of  human 
laws,  without  hope,  without  reward,  losing  the  very  powers 
of  virtue  because  I  would  not  stray  into  crime! 

These  thoughts  fell  on  me  darkly  and  rapidly;  but  they  led 
as  yet  to  no  result.  I  saw  nothing  beyond  them.  I  suffered 
my  indignation  to  gnaw  my  heart,  and  preserved  the  same 
calm  and  serene  demeanor  which  had  grown  with  my  growth 
of  mind.  Strange  that  while  I  upbraided  Fate,  I  did  not  cease 
to  love  mankind.  I  coveted  —  what  ?  The  power  to  serve 
them.  I  had  been  kind  and  loving  to  all  things  from  a  boy; 
there  was  not  a  dumb  animal  that  would  not  single  me  from 
a  crowd  as  its  protector,^  —  and  yet  I  was  doomed —    But 

1  All  the  authentic  anecdotes  of  Aram  corroborate  the  fact  of  his  natural 
gentleness  to  all  things.  A  clergyman  (the  Rev.  Mr.  Hinton)  said  that  he 
used  frequently  to  observe  Aram,  when  walking  in  the  garden,  stoop  down  to 
remove  a  snail  or  worm  from  the  path,  to  prevent  its  being  destroyed.  Mr. 
Hinton  ingeniously  conjectured  that  Aram  wished  to  atone  for  his  crime  by 
showing  mercy  to  every  animal  and  insect ;  but  the  fact  is  that  there  are 
several  anecdotes  to  show  that  he  was  equally  humane  before  the  crime  was 
committed.     Such  are  the  strange  contradictions  of  the  human  heart. 


404  EUGENE   ARAM. 

I  must  not  forestall  the  dread  catastrophe  of  my  life.  In 
returning,  at  night,  to  my  own  home  from  my  long  and  soli- 
tary walks,  I  often  jaassed  the  house  in  which  Clarke  lodged; 
and  sometimes  I  met  him  reeling  by  the  door,  insulting  all 
who  passed, —  and  yet  their  resentment  was  absorbed  in  their 
disgust.  "And  this  loathsome  and  grovelling  thing,"  said  I, 
inly,  "squanders  on  low  excesses,  wastes  upon  oiitrages  to 
society,  that  with  which  I  could  make  my  soul  as  a  burning 
lamp  that  should  shed  a  light  over  the  world !  " 

There  was  that  in  the  man's  vices  which  revolted  me  far 
more  than  the  villany  of  Houseman.  The  latter  had  pos- 
sessed few  advantages  of  education;  he  descended  to  no  mi- 
nutiae of  sin;  he  was  a  plain,  blunt,  coarse  wretch,  and  his 
sense  threw  something  respectable  around  his  vices.  But  in 
Clarke  you  saw  the  traces  of  happier  opportunities,  of  better 
education;  it  was  in  him  not  the  coarseness  of  manner  that 
displeased,  it  was  the  lowness  of  sentiment  that  sickened  me. 
Had  Houseman  money  in  his  purse,  he  would  have  paid  a 
debt  and  relieved  a  friend  from  mere  indifference;  not  so  the 
other.  Had  Clarke  been  overflowing  with  wealth,  he  would 
have  slipped  from  a  creditor  and  duped  a  friend;  there  was  a 
pitiful  cunning  in  his  nature  which  made  him  regard  the  low- 
est meanness  as  the  subtlest  wit.  His  mind,  too,  was  not 
only  degraded,  but  broken  by  his  habits  of  life;  he  had  the 
laugh  of  the  idiot  at  his  own  debasement.  Houseman  was 
young,  he  might  amend, —  but  Clarke  had  gray  hairs  and  dim 
eyes;  was  old  in  constitution,  if  not  years;  and  everything  in 
him  was  hopeless  and  confirmed :  the  leprosy  was  in  the  sys- 
tem. Time,  in  this,  has  made  Houseman  what  Clarke  was 
then. 

One  day,  in  passing  through  the  street,  though  it  was  broad 
noon,  I  encountered  Clarke  in  a  state  of  intoxication,  and 
talking  to  a  crowd  he  had  collected  around  him.  I  sought  to 
pass  in  an  opposite  direction;  he  would  not  suffer  me, —  he, 
whom  I  sickened  to  touch,  to  see,  threw  himself  in  my  way, 
and  affected  gibe  and  insult,  nay,  even  threat.  But  when  he 
came  near,  he  shrank  before  the  mere  glance  of  my  eye,  and 
I  passed  on,  unheeding  him.     The  insult  galled  me;  he  had 


EUGENE   ARAM.  406 

taunted  my  poverty, — poverty  was  a  favorite  jest  with  him, 
—  it  galled  me.  Anger  ?  revenge  ?  No;  ^Aose  passions  I  had 
never  felt  for  any  man.  I  could  not  rouse  them  for  the  tirst 
time  at  such  a  cause;  yet  I  was  lowered  in  my  own  eyes, 
I  was  stung.  Poverty!  he  taunt  me!  I  wandered  from  the 
town,  antl  paused  by  the  winding  and  shagged  hanks  of  the 
river.  It  was  a  gloomy  winter's  day;  the  waters  rolled  on 
black  and  sullen,  and  the  dry  leaves  rustled  desolately  be- 
neath my  feet.  Who  shall  tell  us  that  outward  Nature  has 
no  effect  upon  our  mood  ?  All  around  seemed  to  frown  upon 
my  lot.  I  read  in  the  face  of  heaven  and  earth  a  confirma- 
tion of  the  curse  which  man  hath  set  upon  poverty.  I  leaned 
against  a  tree  that  overhung  the  waters,  and  suffered  my 
thoughts  to  glide  on  in  the  bitter  silence  of  their  course.  I 
heard  my  name  uttered,  I  felt  a  hand  on  my  arm,  I  turned, 
and  Houseman  was  by  my  side. 

"What!  moralizing?"  said  he,  with  his  rude  smile. 

I  did  not  answer  him. 

"Look,"  said  he,  pointing  to  the  waters,  "where  yonder  fish 
lies  waiting  his  prey,  —  that  prey  his  kind.  Come,  you  have 
read  Nature :  is  it  not  so  universally  ?  " 

Still  I  did  not  answer  him. 

"They  who  do  not  as  the  rest,"  he  renewed,  "fulfil  not  the 
object  of  their  existence;  they  seek  to  be  wiser  than  their 
tribe,  and  are  fools  for  their  pains.  Is  it  not  so  ?  I  am  a 
plain  man,   and  would  learn." 

Still  I  did  not  answer  him. 

"You  are  silent,"  said  he:  "do  I  offend  you  ?" 

"No!" 

"Now,  then,"  he  continued,  "strange  as  it  may  seem,  we, 
so  different  in  mind,  are  at  this  moment  alike  in  fortunes.  I 
have  not  a  guinea  in  the  wide  world;  you,  perhaps,  are  equally 
destitute.  But  mark  the  difference :  I,  the  ignorant  man,  ere 
three  days  have  passed,  will  have  filled  my  purse;  you,  the 
wise  man,  will  be  still  as  poor.  Come,  cast  away  your  wis- 
dom,  and  do  as  I  do." 

"How?" 

"Take  from  the  superfluities  of  others  what  your  necessi- 


406  EUGENE   ARAJVI. 

ties  crave.  My  horse,  my  pistol,  a  ready  hand,  a  stout  heart, 
these  are  to  me  what  coffers  are  to  others.  There  is  the 
chance  of  detection  and  death;  I  allow  it;  but  is  not  this 
chance  better  than  some  certainties  ? " 

The  tempter  with  the  glorious  face  and  the  demon  fangs 
rose  again  before  me,  and  spoke  in  the  robber's  voice. 

"  Will  you  share  the  danger  and  the  booty  ? "  renewed 
Houseman,   in  a  low  voice. 

"Speak  out,"  said  I;  "explain  your  purpose!  " 

Houseman's  looks  brightened. 

"  Listen !  "  said  he ;  "  Clarke,  despite  his  present  wealth, 
lawfully  gained,  is  about  to  purloin  more;  he  has  converted 
his  legacy  into  jewels ;  he  has  borrowed  other  jewels  on  false 
pretences ;  he  intends  to  make  these  also  his  own,  and  to  leave 
the  town  in  the  dead  of  night :  he  has  confided  to  me  his  pur- 
pose and  asked  my  aid.  He  and  I,  be  it  known  to  you,  were 
friends  of  old;  we  have  shared  together  other  dangers  and 
other  spoils.  Now  do  you  guess  my  meaning  ?  Let  us  ease 
him  of  his  burden !  I  offer  to  you  the  half ;  share  the  enter- 
prise and  its  fruits." 

I  rose,  I  walked  away,  I  pressed  my  hands  on  my  heart. 
Houseman  saw  the  conflict.  He  followed  me ;  he  named  the 
value  of  the  prize  he  proposed  to  gain:  that  which  he  called 
my  share  placed  all  my  wishes  within  my  reach, —  leisure, 
independence,  knowledge.  The  sublime  Discovery,  the  pos- 
session of  the  glorious  Fiend, —  all,  all  within  my  grasp,  and 
by  a  single  deed;  no  frauds  oft  repeated,  no  sins  long  con- 
tinued,—  a  single  deed!  I  breathed  heavily,  but  the  weight 
still  lay  upon  my  heart.  I  shut  my  eyes  and  shuddered:  the 
mortal  shuddered,  but  still  the  demon  smiled. 

"  Give  me  your  hand, "  said  Houseman. 

"Xo,  no,"  I  said,  breaking  away  from  him;  "I  must  pause, 
I  must  consider.  I  do  not  yet  refuse,  but  I  will  not  now 
decide." 

Houseman  pressed,  but  I  persevered  in  my  determination; 
he  would  have  threatened  me,  but  my  nature  was  haughtier 
than  his,  and  I  subdued  him.  It  was  agreed  that  he  should 
seek  me  that  night  and  learn  my  choice;  the  next  night  was 


EUGENE   ARAM.  40T 

the  one  on  which  the  robbery  was  to  be  committed.  We 
parted;  I  returned  an  altered  man  to  my  liome.  Fate  had 
woven  her  mesh  around  me;  a  new  incident  had  occurred, 
which  strengthened  the  web:  there  was  a  poor  girl  whom  I 
had  been  accustomed  to  see  in  my  walks.  She  supported  her 
family  by  her  dexterity  in  making  lace, —  a  quiet,  patient- 
looking,  gentle  creature.  Clarke  had,  a  few  days  since,  under 
pretence  of  purchasing  lace,  decoyed  her  to  his  house  (when 
all  but  himself  were  from  home),  where  he  used  the  most 
brutal  violence  towards  her.  The  extreme  poverty  of  the  pa- 
rents had  enabled  him  easily  to  persuade  them  to  hush  up  the 
matter,  but  something  of  the  story  got  abroad;  the  poor  girl 
was  marked  out  for  that  gossip  and  scandal  which  among  the 
very  lowest  classes  are  as  coarse  in  the  expression  as  malig- 
nant in  the  sentiment;  and  in  the  paroxysm  of  shame  and 
despair  the  unfortunate  girl  had  that  day  destroyed  herself. 
This  melancholy  event  wrung  forth  from  the  parents  the  real 
story :  the  event  and  the  story  reached  my  ears  at  the  very 
hour  in  which  my  mind  was  wavering  to  and  fro.  "  And  it  is 
to  such  uses,"  said  the  tempter,  "that  this  man  puts  his 
gold!" 

Houseman  came  punctual  to  our  dark  appointment.  I  gave 
him  my  hand  in  silence.  The  tragic  end  of  his  victim,  and 
the  indignation  it  caused,  made  Clarke  yet  more  eager  to  leave 
the  town.  He  had  settled  with  Houseman  that  he  would  ab- 
scond that  very  night, —  not  wait  for  the  next,  as  at  first  he 
had  intended.  His  jewels  and  property  were  put  in  a  small 
compass.  He  had  arranged  that  he  would,  towards  midnight 
or  later,  quit  his  lodging,  and  about  a  mile  from  the  town, 
Houseman  had  engaged  to  have  a  chaise  in  readiness.  For 
this  service  Clarke  had  promised  Houseman  a  reward  with 
which  the  latter  appeared  contented.  It  was  agreed  that  I 
should  meet  Houseman  and  Clarke  at  a  certain  spot  in  their 
way  from  the  town.  Houseman  appeared  at  first  fearful  lest 
I  should  relent  and  waver  in  my  purpose.  It  is  never  so  with 
men  whose  thoughts  are  deep  and  strong.  To  resolve  was  the 
arduous  step, —  once  resolved,  and  I  cast  not  a  look  behind. 
Houseman  left  me  for  the  present.     I  could  not  rest  in  my 


408  EUGENE  ARAM. 

chamber;  I  went  forth  and  walked  about  the  town.  The 
night  deepened;  I  saw  the  lights  in  each  house  withdrawn, 
one  by  one,  and  at  length  all  was  hushed, —  Silence  and  Sleep 
kept  court  over  the  abodes  of  men.  Nature  never  seemed  to 
me  to  make  so  dread  a  pause. 

The  moon  came  out,  but  with  a  pale  and  sickly  countenance. 
It  was  winter;  the  snow,  which  had  been  falling  towards  eve, 
lay  deep  upon  the  ground;  and  the  frost  seemed  to  lock  the 
universal  nature  into  the  same  dread  tranquillity  which  had 
taken  possession  of  my  soul. 

Houseman  was  to  have  come  to  me  at  midnight,  just  before 
Clarke  left  his  house ;  but  it  was  nearly  two  hours  after  that 
time  ere  he  arrived.  I  was  then  walking  to  and  fro  before 
my  own  door.  I  saw  that  he  was  not  alone,  but  with  Clarke. 
"Ha!"  said  he,  "this  is  fortunate;  I  see  you  are  just  going 
home.  You  were  engaged,  I  recollect,  at  some  distance  from 
the  town,  and  have,  I  suppose,  just  returned.  Will  you  ad- 
mit Mr.  Clarke  and  myself  for  a  short  time  ?  For  to  tell  you 
the  truth,"  said  he,  in  a  lower  voice,  "the  watchman  is  about, 
and  we  must  not  be  seen  by  him !  I  have  told  Clarke  that  he 
may  trust  you, — we  are  relatives!  " 

Clarke,  who  seemed  strangely  credulous  and  indifferent, 
considering  the  character  of  his  associate, —  but  those  whom 
Fate  destroys  she  first  blinds, — made  the  same  request  in  a 
careless  tone,  assigning  the  same  cause.  Unwillingly,  I 
opened  the  door  and  admitted  them.  We  went  up  to  my 
chamber.  Clarke  spoke  with  the  utmost  unconcern  of  the 
fraud  he  purposed,  and  with  a  heartlessness  that  made  my 
veins  boil  of  the  poor  wretch  his  brutality  had  destroyed. 
They  stayed  for  nearly  an  hour,  for  the  watchman  remained 
some  time  in  that  beat;  and  then  Houseman  asked  me  to  ac- 
company them  a  little  way  out  of  the  town.  Clarke  seconded 
the  request.  We  walked  forth.  The  rest  why  need  I  tell  ? 
I  cannot,  O  God,  I  cannot!  Houseman  lied  in  the  court.  I 
did  not  strike  the  blow,  I  never  designed  a  murder.  Crime 
enough  in  a  robber's  deed!  He  fell,  he  grasped  my  hand, 
raised  not  to  strike,  but  to  shield  him !  Never  more  has  the 
right  hand  cursed  by  that  dying  clasp  been  given  in  pledge  of 


EUGENE  ARAM.  409 

human  faith  and  friendship.  But  the  deed  was  done,  and  the 
robber's  comrade,  in  the  eyes  of  man  and  hiw,  was  tlie  mur- 
derer's accomplice. 

Houseman  divided  the  booty;  my  share  he  buried  in  the 
earth,  leaving  me  to  withdraw  it  when  I  chose.  There,  per- 
haps, it  lies  still.  I  never  touched  what  I  had  murdered  my 
oicm  life  to  gain.  His  share,  by  the  aid  of  a  gypsy  hag  with 
whom  he  had  dealings.  Houseman  removed  to  London.  And 
now,  mark  what  poor  strugglers  we  are  in  the  eternal  web  of 
destiny !  Three  days  after  that  deed  a  relation,  who  neglected 
me  in  life,  died,  and  left  me  wealth,  —  wealth  at  least  to  me; 
wealth  greater  than  that  for  which  I  had  .  .  .  !  The  news 
fell  on  me  as  a  thunderbolt.  Had  I  waited  but  three  little 
days!  Just  Heaven!  when  they  told  me,  I  thought  I  heard 
the  devils  laugh  out  at  the  fool  who  had  boasted  wisdom. 
Had  I  waited  but  three  days,  three  little  days;  had  but  a 
dream  been  sent  me,  had  but  my  heart  cried  within  me, 
"Thou  hast  suffered  long,  tarry  yet!"^  No,  it  was  for  this, 
for  the  guilt  and  its  penance,  for  the  wasted  life  and  the 
shameful  death, —  with  all  my  thirst  for  good,  my  dreams  of 
glory, —  that  I  was  born,  that  I  was  marked  from  my  first 
sleep  in  the  cradle. 

The  disappearance  of  Clarke  of  course  created  great  excite- 
ment; those  whom  he  had  overreached  had  naturally  an  inter- 

1  Aram  has  hitherto  been  suffered  to  tell  his  own  tale,  without  comment 
or  interruption.  The  chain  of  reasonings,  the  metaphysical  labyrinth  of 
defence  and  motive,  wliich  he  wrought  around  his  guilt,  it  was,  in  justice  to 
him,  necessary  to  give  at  length,  iu  order  to  throw  a  clearer  light  on  his 
ciiaracter,  and  lighten,  perhaps,  in  some  measure  the  colors  of  his  crime. 
No  moral  can  be  more  impressive  than  that  which  teaches  how  man  can 
entaugle  himself  in  his  own  sophisms ;  that  moral  is  better,  viewed  aright, 
than  volumes  of  homilies  But  here  I  must  pause  for  one  moment  to  bid  the 
reader  remark  that  that  event  which  confirmed  Aram  in  the  bewildering  doc- 
trines of  his  pernicious  fatalism,  ought  rather  to  inculcate  the  divine  virtue  — 
the  foundation  of  all  virtues,  Heathen  or  Christian;  that  which  Epictetus 
made  clear,  and  Christ  sacred  —  Fortitude.  The  reader  will  note  that  the 
answer  to  the  reasonings  that  probably  convinced  the  mind  of  Aram,  and 
blinded  him  to  his  crime,  may  be  found  in  the  change  of  feelings  by  which  the 
crime  was  followed.  I  must  apologize  for  this  interruption ;  it  seemed  to  me 
advisable  in  this  place. 


410  EUGENE  ARAM. 

est  in  discovering  him.  Some  vague  surmises  that  he  might 
have  been  made  away  with  were  rumored  abroad.  Houseiiiau 
and  I,  owing  to  some  concurrence  of  circumstance,  were  ex- 
amined,—  not  that  suspicion  attached  to  me  before  or  after 
the  examination.  That  ceremony  ended  in  nothing.  House- 
man did  not  betray  himself;  and  I,  who  from  a  boy  had  mas- 
tered my  passions,  could  master  also  the  nerves  by  which 
passions  are  betrayed.  But  I  read  in  the  face  of  the  woman 
with  whom  I  lodged  that  I  was  suspected.  Houseman  told 
me  that  she  had  openly  expressed  her  suspicion  to  him, —  nay, 
he  entertained  some  design  against  her  life,  which  he  natur- 
ally abandoned  on  quitting  the  town.  This  he  did  soon  after- 
wards, I  did  not  linger  long  behind  him.  I  received  my 
legacy,  and  departed  on  foot  to  Scotland,  And  now  I  was 
above  want :  was  I  at  rest  ?  Not  yet.  I  felt  urged  on  to 
wander, —  Cain's  curse  descends  to  Cain's  children.  I  trav- 
elled for  some  considerable  time;  I  saw  men  and  cities,  and 
I  opened  a  new  volume  in  my  kind.  It  was  strange,  but  be- 
fore the  deed  I  was  as  a  child  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  and  a 
child,  despite  my  knowledge,  might  have  duped  me.  The 
moment  after  it,  a  light  broke  upon  me, —  it  seemed  as  if  my 
eyes  were  touched  with  a  charm,  and  rendered  capable  of 
piercing  the  hearts  of  men!  Yes,  it  was  a  charm,  a  new 
charm, —  it  was  Suspicion!  I  now  practised  myself  in  the 
use  of  arms;  they  made  my  sole  companions.  Peaceful  as  I 
seemed  to  the  world,  I  felt  there  was  that  eternally  within  me 
with  which  the  world  was  at  war. 

And  what  became  of  the  superb  ambition  which  had  undone 
me  ?  Where  vanished  that  Grand  Discovery  which  was  to 
benefit  the  world  ?  The  ambition  died  in  remorse,  and  the 
vessel  that  should  have  borne  me  to  the  far  Land  of  Science 
lay  rotting  piecemeal  on  a  sea  of  blood.  The  Past  destroyed 
my  old  heritage  in  the  Future,  The  consciousness  that  at 
any  hour,  in  the  possession  of  honors,  by  the  hearth  of  love, 
I  might  be  dragged  forth  and  proclaimed  a  murderer;  that  I 
held  my  life,  my  reputation,  at  the  breath  of  accident;  that 
in  the  moment  I  least  dreamed  of,  the  earth  might  yield  its 
dead  and  the  gibbet  demand  its  victim, — this  could  I  feel,  all 


EUGENE   ARAM.  411 

this,  and  not  see  a  spectre  in  the  place  of  science  ?  —  a  spectre 
that  walked  by  my  side,  that  slept  in  my  bed,  that  rose  from 
my  books,  that  glided  between  me  and  the  stars  of  heaven, 
that  stole  along  the  flowers  and  withered  their  sweet  breath, 
that  whispered  in  my  ear,  "Toil,  fool,  and  be  wise;  the  gift 
of  wisdom  is  to  place  us  above  the  reach  of  fortune,  but  thou 
art  her  veriest  minion ! "  Yes ;  I  paused  at  last  from  my 
wanderings,  and  surrounded  myself  with  books,  and  know- 
ledge became  once  more  to  me  what  it  had  been, —  a  thirst, — 
but  not  what  it  had  been, — a  reward.  I  occupied  my  thoughts, 
1  laid  up  new  hoards  within  my  mind,  I  looked  around,  and 
I  saw  few  whose  stores  were  like  my  own ;  but  gone  forever 
the  sublime  desire  of  applying  wisdom  to  the  service  of  man- 
kind! IVIankind  had  grown  my  foes.  I  looked  upon  them 
with  other  eyes.  I  knew  that  I  carried  within  me  that  secret 
which,  if  bared  to  day,  would  make  them  loathe  and  hate  me, 
— yea,  though  I  coined  my  future  life  into  one  series  of  bene- 
fits to  them  and  their  posterity !  Was  not  this  thought  enough 
to  quell  my  ardor,  to  chill  activity  into  rest  ?  The  brighter 
the  honors  I  might  win,  the  greater  the  services  I  inight  be- 
stow on  the  world,  the  more  dread  and  fearful  might  be  my 
fall  at  last!  I  might  be  but  piling  up  the  scaffold  from  which 
I  was  to  be  hurled !  Possessed  by  these  thoughts,  a  new  view 
of  human  affairs  siicceeded  to  my  old  aspirings;  the  moment 
a  man  feels  that  an  object  has  ceased  to  charm,  his  reasonings 
reconcile  himself  to  his  loss.  "Why,"  said  I,  "why  flatter 
myself  that  /  can  serve,  that  I  can  enlighten  mankind  ?  Are 
we  fully  sure  that  individual  wisdom  has  ever,  in  reality,  done 
so  ?  Are  we  really  better  because  Newton  lived,  and  happier 
because  Bacon  thought  ?  "  These  freezing  reflections  pleased 
the  present  state  of  my  mind  more  than  the  warm  and  yearn- 
ing enthusiasm  it  had  formerly  nourished.  Mere  worldly  am- 
bition, from  a  boy  I  had  disdained;  the  true  worth  of  sceptres 
and  crowns,  the  disquietude  of  power,  the  humiliations  of 
vanity,  had  never  been  disguised  from  my  sight.  Intellectual 
ambition  had  inspired  me.  I  now  regarded  it  equally  as  a 
delusion.  I  coveted  light  solely  for  my  own  soul  to  bathe  in. 
Rest  now  became  to  me  the  sole  to  KaX6v,  the  sole  charm  of 


412  EUGENE  ARAM. 

existence.  I  grew  enainoured  of  the  doctrine  of  those  old  mys- 
tics who  have  placed  happiness  only  in  an  even  and  balanced 
quietude.  And  where  but  in  utter  loneliness  was  that  quie- 
tude to  be  enjoyed  ?  I  no  longer  wondered  that  men  in  former 
times,  when  consumed  by  the  recollection  of  some  haunting 
guilt,  fled  to  the  desert  and  became  hermits.  Tranquillity 
and  solitude  are  the  only  soothers  of  a  memory  deeply  troubled: 
light  griefs  fly  to  the  crowd,  fierce  tlioughts  must  battle  them- 
selves to  rest.  Many  years  had  flown,  and  I  had  made  my 
home  in  many  places.  All  that  was  turbulent,  if  not  all  that 
was  unquiet,  in  my  recollections  had  died  away.  Time  had 
lulled  me  into  a  sense  of  security.  I  breathed  more  freely. 
I  sometimes  stole  from  the  past.  Since  I  had  quitted  Knares- 
borough  chance  had  often  thrown  it  in  my  power  to  serve  my 
brethren, —  not  by  wisdom,  but  by  charity  or  courage;  by  in- 
dividual acts  that  it  soothed  me  to  remember.  If  the  grand 
aim  of  enlightening  a  world  was  gone,  if  to  so  enlarged  a 
benevolence  had  succeeded  apathy  or  despair,  still  the  man, 
the  human  man,  clung  to  my  heart;  still  was  I  as  prone  to 
pity,  as  prompt  to  defend,  as  glad  to  cheer,  whenever  the 
vicissitudes  of  life  afforded  me  the  occasion,  —  and  to  poverty, 
most  of  all,  my  hand  never  closed.  For,  oh,  what  a  terrible 
devil  creeps  into  that  man's  soul  who  sees  famine  at  his  door! 
One  tender  act,  and  hoAV  many  black  designs,  struggling  into 
life  within,  you  may  crush  forever!  He  who  deems  the  world 
his  foe,  —  convince  hlin  that  he  has  one  friend,  and  it  is  like 
snatching  a  dagger  from  his  hand! 

I  came  to  a  beautiful  and  remote  part  of  the  country, — 
Walter  Lester,  I  came  to  Grassdale!  The  enchanting  scenery 
around,  the  sequestered  and  deep  retirement  of  the  place, 
arrested  me  at  once.  "And  among  these  valleys,"  I  said, 
"will  I  linger  out  the  rest  of  my  life,  and  among  these  quiet 
graves  shall  mine  be  dug,  and  my  secret  shall  die  with  me ! " 

I  rented  the  lonely  house  in  which  I  dwelt  when  you  first 
knew  me;  thither  I  transported  my  books  and  instruments  of 
science,  and  a  deep  quiet,  almost  amounting  to  content,  fell 
like  a  sweet  sleep  upon  my  soul! 

In  this  state  of  mind,  the  most  free  from  memory  that  I  had 


EUGENE   ARAM.  413 

known  for  twelve  years,  I  first  saw  Madeline  Lester.  Even 
with  that  first  time  a  sudden  and  heavenly  light  seemed  to 
dawn  upon  me.  Her  face  —  its  still,  its  serene,  its  touching 
beauty  —  shone  down  on  my  desolation  like  a  dream  of  mercy, 
like  a  hope  of  pardon.  My  heart  warmed  as  I  beheld  it,  my 
pulse  woke  from  its  even  slowness.  I  was  young  once  more; 
young,  —  the  youth,  the  freshness,  the  ardor,  not  of  the  frame 
only,  but  of  the  soul.  But  I  then  only  saw  or  spoke  to  her, 
scarce  knew  her,  not  loved  her;  nor  was  it  often  that  we  met. 
The  south  wind  stirred  the  dark  waters  of  my  mind;  but  it 
passed,  and  all  became  hushed  again.  It  was  not  for  two 
years  from  the  time  we  first  saw  each  other  that  accident 
brought  us  closely  together.  I  pass  over  the  rest.  We  loved! 
Yet,  oh!  what  struggles  were  mine  during  the  progress  of 
that  love.  How  unnatural  did  it  seem  to  me  to  yield  to  a  pas- 
sion that  united  me  to  my  kind;  and  as  I  loved  her  more,  how 
far  more  torturing  grew  my  fear  of  the  future!  That  which 
had  almost  slept  before,  awoke  again  to  terrible  life.  The 
soil  that  covered  the  past  might  be  riven,  the  dead  awake,  and 
that  ghastly  chasm  separate  me  forever  from  her!  What  a 
doom,  too,  might  I  bring  upon  that  breast  which  had  begun 
so  confidingly  to  love  me!  Often,  often  I  resolved  to  fly,  to 
forsake  her,  to  seek  some  desert  spot  in  the  distant  parts  of 
the  world,  and  never  to  be  betrayed  again  into  human  emo- 
tions !  But  as  the  bird  flutters  in  the  net,  as  the  hare  doubles 
from  its  pursuers,  I  did  but  wrestle,  I  did  but  trifle,  with  an 
irresistible  doom.  Mark  how  strange  are  the  coincidences  of 
Fate, —  Fate  that  gives  us  warnings,  and  takes  away  the  power 
to  obey  them,  the  idle  prophetess,  the  juggling  fiend!  On  the 
same  evening  that  brought  me  acquainted  with  Madeline  Les- 
ter, Houseman,  led  by  schemes  of  fraud  and  violence  into  that 
part  of  the  country,  discovered  and  sought  me !  Imagine  my 
feelings  when  in  the  hush  of  night  I  opened  the  door  of  my 
lonely  home  to  his  summons,  and  by  the  light  of  that  moon 
which  had  witnessed  so  never-to-be-forgotten  a  companionship 
between  us,  beheld  my  accomplice  in  murder  after  the  lapse 
of  so  many  years !  Time  and  a  course  of  vice  had  changed 
and  hardened  and  lowered  his  nature ;  and  in  the  power,  at 


414  EUGENE   ARAM. 

tlie  will,  of  that  nature  I  beheld  myself  abruptly  placed.  He 
passed  that  night  under  my  roof.  He  was  poor;  I  gave  him 
what  was  in  my  hands.  He  promised  to  leave  that  part  of 
England,   to  seek  me  no  more. 

The  next  day  I  could  not  bear  my  own  thoughts,  the  revul- 
sion was  too  sudden,  too  full  of  turbulent,  fierce,  torturing 
emotions ;  I  fled  for  a  short  relief  to  the  house  to  which  Made- 
line's father  had  invited  me.  But  in  vain  I  sought,  by  wine, 
by  converse,  by  human  voices,  human  kindness,  to  fly  the 
ghost  that  had  been  raised  from  the  grave  of  time.  I  soon 
returned  to  my  own  thoughts.  I  resolved  to  wrap  myself  once 
more  in  the  solitude  of  my  heart.  But  let  me  not  repeat 
what  I  have  said  before,  somewhat  prematurely,  in  my  narra- 
tive. I  resolved,  I  struggled  in  vain;  Fate  had  ordained 
that  the  sweet  life  of  Madeline  Lester  should  wither  beneath 
the  poison  tree  of  mine.  Houseman  sought  me  again;  and 
now  came  on  the  humbling  part  of  crime, —  its  low  calcula- 
tions, its  poor -defence,  its  paltry  trickery,  its  mean  hypoc- 
risy. They  made  my  chiefest  penance.  I  was  to  evade,  to 
beguile,  to  buy  into  silence  this  rude  and  despised  ruffian. 
No  matter  now  to  repeat  how  this  task  was  fulfilled;  I 
surrendered  nearly  my  all  on  the  condition  of  his  leaving 
England  forever.  Not  till  I  thought  that  condition  already 
fulfilled,  till  the  day  had  passed  on  which  he  should  have 
left  England,  did  I  consent  to  allow  Madeline's  fate  to  be 
irrevocably  woven  with  mine. 

How  often,  when  the  soul  sins,  are  her  loftiest  feelings 
punished  through  her  lowest!  To  me,  lone,  rapt,  forever  on 
the  wing  to  unearthly  speculation,  galling  and  humbling  was 
it,  indeed,  to  be  suddenly  called  from  the  eminence  of  thought 
to  barter  in  pounds  and  pence  for  life,  and  with  one  like 
Houseman !  These  are  the  curses  that  deepen  the  tragedy  of 
life,  by  grinding  down  our  pride.  But  I  wander  back  to  what 
I  have  before  said.  I  was  to  marry  Madeline.  I  was  once 
more  poor,  but  want  did  not  rise  before  me ;  I  had  succeeded 
in  obtaining  the  promise  of  a  competence  from  one  whom  you 
know.  For  that  which  I  had  once  sought  to  force  from  my 
kind,  I  asked  noWj  not  with  the  spirit  of  the  beggar,  but  of 


EUGENE   ARAM.  415 

the  just  claimant,  and  in  that  spirit  it  was  granted.  And  now 
I  was  really  happy:  Houseman  I  believed  removed  forever 
from  my  path;  Madeline  was  about  to  be  mine.  I  surren- 
dered myself  to  love,  and,  blind  and  deluded,  I  wandered  on, 
and  awoke  on  the  brink  of  that  precipice  into  which  I  am 
about  to  plunge.  You  know  the  rest.  But  oh,  what  now  was 
my  horror!  It  had  not  been  a  mere  worthless,  isolated  unit 
in  creation  that  I  had  seen  blotted  out  of  the  sum  of  life, — 
the  miirder  done  in  my  presence,  and  of  which  Law  would  deem 
me  the  accomplice,  had  been  done  upon  the  brother  of  him 
whose  child  was  my  betrothed.  Mysterious  avenger,  relent- 
less Fate,  how,  when  I  deemed  myself  the  farthest  from  her, 
had  I  been  sinking  into  her  grasp!  How  incalculable,  how 
measureless,  how  viewless  the  consequences  of  one  crime,  even 
when  we  think  we  have  weighed  them  all  with  scales  that 
have  turned  with  a  hair's  weight!  Hear  me,  —  as  the  voice 
of  a  man  who  is  on  the  brink  of  a  world,  the  awful  nature 
of  which  reason  cannot  pierce, —  hear  me!  When  your  heart 
tempts  to  some  wandering  from  the  line  allotted  to  the  rest  of 
men,  and  whispers,  "  This  may  be  crime  in  others,  but  is  not 
so  in  thee ;  "  or,  "  It  is  but  one  misdeed,  it  shall  entail  no 
other, "  —  tremble ;  cling  fast,  fast  to  the  path  you  are  lured 
to  leave.     Remember  me! 

But  in  this  state  of  mind  I  was  yet  forced  to  play  the  hypo- 
crite. Had  I  been  alone  in  the  world,  had  Madeline  and  Les- 
ter not  been  to  me  what  they  were,  I  might  have  disproved 
the  charge  of  fellowship  in  murder;  I  might  have  wrung  from 
the  pale  lips  of  Houseman  the  actual  truth.  But  though  I 
might  clear  myself  as  the  murderer,  I  must  condemn  myself 
as  the  robber;  and  in  avowal  of  that  lesser  guilt,  though  I 
might  have  lessened  the  abhorrence  of  others,  I  should  have 
inflicted  a  blow,  worse  than  that  of  my  death  itself,  on  the 
hearts  of  those  who  deemed  me  sinless  as  themselves.  Their 
eyes  were  on  me;  their  lives  were  set  on  my  complete  acquit- 
tal, less  even  of  life  than  honor,  —  my  struggle  against  truth 
was  less  for  myself  than  them.  My  defence  fulfilled  its  end : 
Madeline  died  without  distrusting  the  innocence  of  him  she 
loved.      Lester,  unless  you  betray  me,  will  die  in  the  same 


416  EUGENE   ARAM. 

belief.  In  truth,  since  the  arts  of  hypocrisy  have  been  com- 
menced, the  pride  of  consistency  would  have  made  it  sweet  to 
me  to  leave  the  world  in  a  like  error,  or  at  least  in  doubt. 
For  you  I  conquer  that  desire,  —  the  proud  man's  last  frailty. 
And  now  my  tale  is  done.  From  what  passes  at  this  instant 
within  my  heart,  I  lift  not  the  veil.  Whether  beneath  be 
despair,  or  hope,  or  fiery  emotions,  or  one  settled  and  ominous 
calm,  matters  not  My  last  hours  shall  not  belie  my  life;  on 
the  verge  of  death  I  will  not  play  the  dastard,  and  tremble  at 
the  Dim  Unknown.  Perhaps  I  am  not  without  hope  that  the 
Great  Unseen  Spirit,  whose  emanation  within  me  I  have 
nursed  and  worshipped,  though  erringly  and  in  vain,  may  see 
in  his  fallen  creature  one  bewildered  by  his  reason  rather  than 
yielding  to  his  vices.  The  guide  I  received  from  heaven  be- 
trayed me,  and  I  was  lost;  but  I  have  not  plunged  wittingly 
from  crime  to  crime.  Against  one  guilty  deed,  some  good  and 
much  suffering  may  be  set;  and  dim  and  afar  off  from  my 
allotted  bourn,  T  may  behold  in  her  glorious  home  the  face  of 
her  who  taught  me  to  love,  and  who,  even  there,  could  scarce 
be  blessed  without  shedding  the  light  of  her  divine  forgive- 
ness upon  me.  Enough!  ere  you  break  this  seal  my  doom 
rests  not  with  man  nor  earth.  The  burning  desires  I  have 
known,  the  resplendent  visions  I  have  nursed,  the  sublime 
inspirings  that  have  lifted  me  so  often  from  sense  and  clay, 

—  these  tell  me  that,  whether  for  good  or  ill,  I  am  the  thing 
of  an  Immortality  and  the  creature  of  a  God!  As  men  of  the 
old  wisdom  drew  their  garments  around  their  face  and  sat 
down  collectedly  to  die,  I  wrap  myself  in  the  settled  resigna- 
tion of  a  soul  firm  to  the  last,  and  taking  not  from  man's  ven- 
geance even  the  method  of  its  dismissal.  The  courses  of  my 
life  I  swayed  with  my  own  hand;  from  mine  own  hand  shall 
come  the  manner  and  moment  of  death! 

Eugene  Aram. 

On  the  day  after  that  evening  in  which  Aram  had  given  the 
above  confession  to  Walter  Lester,  —  on  the  day  of  execution, 

—  when  they  entered  the  condemned  cell  they  found  the  pris- 
oner lying  on  the  bed;  and  when  they  approached  to  take  off 


EUGENE   ARAM.  41T 

the  irons,  they  found,  that  he  neither  stirred  nor  answered  to 
their  call.  They  attempted  to  raise  him,  and  he  then  uttered 
some  words  in  a  faint  voice.  They  perceived  that  he  was 
covered  with  blood.  He  had  opened  his  veins  in  two  places 
in  the  arm  with  a  sharp  instrument  which  he  had  contrived 
to  conceal.  A  surgeon  was  instantly  sent  for,  and  by  the 
customary  applications  the  prisoner  in  some  measure  was 
brought  to  himself.  Kesolved  not  to  defraud  the  law  of  its 
victim,  they  bore  him,  though  he  appeared  unconscious  of  all 
around,  to  the  fatal  spot.  But  when  he  arrived  at  that  dread 
place,  his  sense  suddenly  seemed  to  return.  He  looked  has- 
tily round  the  throng  that  swayed  and  murmured  below,  and 
a  faint  flush  rose  to  his  cheek;  he  cast  his  eyes  impatiently 
above,  and  breathed  hard  and  convulsively.  The  dire  prepa- 
rations were  made,  completed;  but  the  prisoner  drew  back 
for  an  instant.  Was  it  from  mortal  fear  ?  He  motioned  to 
the  clergyman  to  approach,  as  if  about  to  whisper  some  last 
request  in  his  ear.  The  clergyman  bowed  his  head;  there 
was  a  minute's  awful  pause;  Aram  seemed  to  struggle  as  for 
words;  when,  suddenly  throwing  himself  back,  a  bright,  tri- 
umphant smile  flashed  over  his  whole  face.  With  that  smile 
the  haughty  spirit  passed  away,  and  the  law's  last  indignity 
was  wreaked  upon  a  breathless  corpse! 


27 


418  EUGENE   ARAM. 


CHAPTER   VIII.    AND   LAST. 

THE     traveller's      RETURN, THE      COUNTRY     VILLAGE     ONCE 

MORE      VISITED.  ITS      INHABITANTS.  THE       REMEMBERED 

BROOK. THE  DESERTED  MANOR-HOUSE. THE  CHURCH-YARD. 

THE    TRAVELLER    RESUMES    HIS    JOURNEY. THE     COUNTRY 

TOWN. A    MEETING    OF    TWO    LOVERS    AFTER    LONG    ABSENCE 

AND    MUCH    SORROW. CONCLUSION. 

The  lopped  tree  in  time  may  grow  again, 
Most  naked  plants  renew  both  fruit  and  flower ; 
The  sorriest  wight  may  find  release  from  pain, 
The  driest  soil  suck  in  some  moistening  shower : 
Times  go  by  turns,  and  chances  change  by  course 
From  foul  to  fair.  —  Robert  Southwell. 

Sometimes,  towards  the  end  of  a  gloomy  day,  the  sun,  be- 
fore but  dimly  visible,  breaks  suddenly  out,  and  where  before 
you  had  noticed  only  the  sterner  outline  of  the  mountains, 
you  turn  with  relief  to  the  lowlier  features  of  the  vale.  So 
in  this  record  of  crime  and  sorrow,  the  ray  that  breaks  forth 
at  the  close  brings  into  gentle  light  the  shapes  which  the  ear- 
lier darkness  had  obscured. 

It  was  some  years  after  the  date  of  the  last  event  we  have 
recorded,  and  it  was  a  fine,  warm  noon  in  the  happy  month 
of  May,  when  a  horseman  rode  slowly  through  the  long,  strag- 
gling village  of  Grassdale.  He  was  a  man,  though  in  the 
prime  of  youth  (for  he  might  yet  want  some  two  years  of 
thirty),  who  bore  the  steady  and  earnest  air  of  one  who  has 
wrestled  with  the  world,  —  his  eye  keen  but  tranquil;  his  sun- 
burnt though  handsome  features,  which  thought  or  care  had 
despoiled  of  the  roundness  of  their  early  contour,  leaving  the 
cheek  somewhat  sunken  and  the  lines  somewhat  marked,  were 
characterized  by  a  grave,  and  at  that  moment  by  a  melan- 
choly and  soft,  expression;  and  now,  as  his  horse  proceeded 
slowly   through  the  green   lane  which   at   every  vista   gave 


EUGENE   ARAM.  419 

glimpses  of  rich,  verdant  valleys,  the  sparkling  river,  or  the 
orchard  ripe  with  the  fragrant  blossoms  of  spring,  his  head 
drooped  upon  his  breast  and  the  tears  started  to  his  eyes. 
The  dress  of  the  horseman  was  of  foreign  fashion,  and  at  that 
day,  when  the  garb  still  denoted  the  calling,  sufficiently  mili- 
tary to  show  the  profession  he  had  belonged  to.  And  well 
did  the  garb  become  the  short,  dark  mustache,  the  sinewy 
chest,  and  length  of  limb  of  the  young  horseman, —  recom- 
mendations, the  two  latter,  not  despised  in  the  court  of  the 
Great  Frederick  of  Prussia,  in  whose  service  he  had  borne 
arms.  He  had  commenced  his  career  in  that  battle  terminat- 
ing in  the  signal  defeat  of  the  bold  Daun,  when  the  fortunes 
of  that  gallant  general  paled  at  last  before  the  star  of  the 
greatest  of  modern  kings.  The  peace  of  1763  had  left  Prussia 
in  the  quiet  enjoyment  of  the  glory  she  had  obtained,  and  the 
young  Englishman  took  the  advantage  it  afforded  him  of  see- 
ing,  as  a  traveller,   not  despoiler,  the  rest  of  Europe. 

The  adventure  and  the  excitement  of  travel  pleased,  and  left 
him  even  now  uncertain  whether  or  not  his  present  return  to 
England  would  be  for  long.  He  had  not  been  a  week  returned, 
and  to  this  part  of  his  native  country  he  had  hastened  at  once. 

He  checked  his  horse  as  he  now  passed  the  memorable  sign 
that  yet  swung  before  the  door  of  Peter  Dealtry;  and  tliere, 
under  the  shade  of  the  broad  tree,  now  budding  into  all  its 
tenderest  verdure,  a  pedestrian  wayfarer  sat  enjoying  the  rest 
and  coolness  of  his  shelter.  Our  horseman  cast  a  look  at  the 
open  door,  across  which,  in  the  bustle  of  housewifery,  female 
forms  now  and  then  glanced  and  vanished,  and  presently  he 
saw  Peter  himself  saunter  forth  to  chat  with  the  traveller 
beneath  his  tree.  And  Peter  Dealtry  was  the  same  as  ever, 
only  he  seemed  perhaps  shorter  and  thinner  than  of  old,  as  if 
Time  did  not  so  much  break  as  gradually  wear  away  mine 
host's  slender  person. 

The  horseman  gazed  for  a  moment,  but  observing  Peter  re- 
turn the  gaze,  he  turned  aside  his  head,  and  putting  his  horse 
into  a  canter,  soon  passed  out  of  cognizance  of  The  Spotted 
Dog. 

He  now  came  in  sight  of  the  neat  white  cottage  of  the  old 


420  EUGENE   ARAM. 

corporal;  and  there,  leaning  over  the  pale,  a  crutch  under  one 
arm  and  his  friendly  pipe  in  one  corner  of  his  shrewd  mouth, 
was  the  corporal  himself.  Perched  upon  the  railing  in  a 
semi-doze,  the  ears  down,  the  eyes  closed,  sat  a  large  brown 
cat.  Poor  Jacobina,  it  was  not  thyself!  death  spares  neither 
cat  nor  king;  but  thy  virtues  lived  in  thy  grandchild,  and  thy 
grandchild  (as  age  brings  dotage)  was  loved  even  more  than 
thee  by  the  worthy  corporal.  Long  may  thy  race  flourish! 
for  at  this  day  it  is  not  extinct.  Nature  rarely  inflicts  bar- 
renness on  the  feline  tribe ;  they  are  essentially  made  for  love 
and  love's  soft  cares,  and  a  cat's  lineage  outlives  the  lineage 
of  kaisers. 

At  the  sound  of  hoofs  the  corporal  turned  his  head,  and  he 
looked  long  and  wistfully  at  the  horseman  as,  relaxing  his 
horse's  pace  into  a  walk,  our  traveller  rode  slowly  on. 

"'Fore  George,"  muttered  the  corporal,  "a  fine  man,  a  very 
fine  man;  'bout  my  inches,  augh!  " 

A  smile,  but  a  very  faint  smile,  crossed  the  lip  of  the 
horseman  as  he  gazed  on  the  figure  of  the  stalwart  corporal. 

"He  eyes  me  hard,"  thought  he,  "yet  he  does  not  seem  to 
remember  me.  I  must  be  greatly  changed.  'T  is  fortunate, 
however,  that  I  am  not  recognized;  fain,  indeed,  at  this  time 
would  I  come  and  go  unnoticed  and  alone." 

The  horseman  fell  into  a  revery,  which  was  broken  by  the 
murmur  of  the  sunny  rivulet  fretting  over  each  little  obstacle 
it  met, — the  happy  and  spoiled  child  of  Nature!  That  mur- 
mur rang  on  the  horseman's  ear  like  a  voice  from  his  boyhood : 
how  familiar  was  it,  how  dear!  No  haunting  tone  of  music 
ever  recalled  so  rushing  a  host  of  memories  and  associations 
as  that  simple,  restless,  everlasting  sound!  Everlasting! 
All  had  changed, —  the  trees  had  sprung  up  or  decayed;  some 
cottages  around  were  ruins,  some  new  and  unfamiliar  ones 
supplied  their  place;  and  on  the  stranger  himself  —  on  all 
those  whom  the  sound  recalled  to  his  heart  —  Time  had  been, 
indeed,  at  work;  but  with  the  same  exulting  bound  and  happy 
voice,  that  little  brook  leaped  along  its  way.  Ages  hence,  may 
the  course  be  as  glad,  and  the  murmur  as  full  of  mirth!  They 
are  blessed  things,  those  remote  and  unchanging  streams, — 


EUGENE   ARAM.  421 

they  fill  us  with  the  same  love  as  if  they  were  living  crea- 
tures; and  in  a  green  corner  of  the  world  there  is  one  that, 
for  my  part,  I  never  see  without  forgetting  myself  to  tears, 
—  tears  that  I  would  not  lose  for  a  king's  ransom;  tears  that 
no  other  sight  or  sound  could  call  from  their  source;  tears  of 
what  affection,  what  soft  regret;  tears  through  the  soft  mists 
of  which  I  behold  what  I  have  lost  on  earth  and  hope  to  regain 
in  heaven! 

The  traveller,  after  a  brief  pause,  continued  his  road;  and 
now  he  came  full  upon  the  old  manor-house.  The  weeds  were 
grown  up  in  the  garden,  the  mossed  paling  was  broken  in 
many  places,  the  house  itself  was  shut  up,  and  the  sun  glanced 
on  the  deep-sunk  casements,  without  finding  its  way  into  the 
desolate  interior.  High  above  the  old  hospitable  gate  hung  a 
board  announcing  that  the  house  was  for  sale,  and  referring 
the  curious  or  the  speculating  to  the  attorney  of  the  neighbor- 
ing town.  The  horseman  sighed  heavily,  and  muttered  to 
himself;  then,  txirning  up  the  road  that  led  to  the  back  en- 
trance, he  came  into  the  court-yard,  and  leading  his  horse 
into  an  empty  stable,  he  proceeded  on  foot  through  the  dis- 
mantled premises,  pausing  with  every  moment,  and  holding 
a  sad  and  ever-changing  commune  with  himself.  An  old 
woman,  a  stranger  to  him,  was  the  sole  inmate  of  the  house ; 
and  imagining  he  came  to  buy,  or  at  least  examine,  she  con- 
ducted him  through  the  house,  pointing  out  its  advantages 
and  lamenting  its  dilapidated  state.  Our  traveller  scarcely 
heard  her;  but  when  he  came  to  one  room,  Avhich  he  would 
not  enter  till  the  last  (it  was  the  little  parlor  in  which  the 
once  happy  family  had  been  wont  to  sit),  he  sank  down  in  the 
chair  that  had  been  Lester's  honored  seat,  and  covering  his 
face  with  his  hands,  did  not  move  or  look  up  for  several  mo- 
ments. The  old  woman  gazed  at  him  with  surprise.  "Per- 
haps, sir,  you  knew  the  family  ?    They  were  greatly  beloved." 

The  traveller  did  not  answer ;  but  when  he  rose,  he  muttered 
to  himself:  "No,  the  experiment  is  made  in  vain.  Never, 
never,  could  I  live  here  again.  It  must  be  so, — the  house  of 
my  forefathers  must  pass  into  a  stranger's  hands."  With  this 
reflection  he  hurried  from  the  house,  and  re-entering  the  gar- 


422  EUGENE   ARAM. 

den,  turned  through  a  little  gate  that  swung  half  open  on  its 
shattered  hinges,  and  led  into  the  green  and  quiet  sanctuaries 
of  the  dead.  The  same  touching  character  of  deep  and  undis- 
turbed repose  that  hallows  the  country  church-yard, —  and  that 
one  more  than  most, — yet  brooded  there,  as  when,  years  ago, 
it  woke  his  young  mind  to  reflection,  then  unmingled  with 
regret. 

He  passed  over  the  rude  mounds  of  earth  that  covered  the 
deceased  poor,  and  paused  at  a  tomb  of  higher,  though  but  of 
simple  pretensions;  it  was  not  yet  discolored  by  the  dews  and 
seasons,  and  the  short  inscription  traced  upon  it  was  strik- 
ingly legible  in  comparison  with  those  around:  — 


EoAVLAND  Lester. 

Obiit  1760,  aet.  64. 

Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,  for  they  shall  be  comforted. 


By  that  tomb  the  traveller  remained  in  undisturbed  contem- 
plation for  some  time;  and  when  he  turned,  all  the  swarthy 
color  had  died  from  his  cheek,  his  eyes  were  dim,  and  the 
wonted  pride  of  a  young  man's  step  and  a  soldier's  bearing 
was  gone  from  his  mien. 

As  he  looked  up,  his  eye  caught  afar,  embedded  among  the 
soft  verdure  of  the  spring,  one  lone  and  gray  house,  from 
■whose  chimney  there  rose  no  smoke, — sad,  inhospitable,  dis- 
mantled as  that  beside  which  he  now  stood,  as  if  the  curse 
which  had  fallen  on  the  inmates  of  either  mansion  still  clung 
to  either  roof.  One  hasty  glance  only  the  traveller  gave  to 
the  solitary  and  distant  abode,  and  then  started  and  quickened 
his  pace. 

On  re-entering  the  stables,  the  traveller  found  the  corporal 
examining  his  horse  from  head  to  foot  with  great  care  and 
attention. 

"  Good  hoofs  too,  humph !  "  quoth  the  corporal,  as  he  re- 
leased the  front  leg;  and  turning  round,  saw,  with  some  little 
confusion,  the  owner  of  the  steed  he  had  been  honoring  with 


EUGENE   ARAM.  423 

so  minute  a  survey.  "Oh,  augh!  looking  at  the  beastie,  sir, 
lest  it  might  have  cast  a  shoe.  Thought  your  honor  might 
want  some  intelligent  person  to  show  you  the  premises,  if  so 
be  you  have  come  to  buy, —  nothing  but  an  old  'oman  there; 
dare  say  your  honor  does  not  like  old  'omen,   augh!" 

"  The  owner  is  not  in  these  parts  ?  "  said  the  horseman. 

"No,  over  seas,  sir;  a  fine  young  gentleman,  but  hasty; 
and,  and —  But  Lord  bless  me!  sure  —  no,  it  can't  be  —  yes, 
now  you  turn  —  it  is  —  it  is  my  young  master !  "  So  saying, 
the  corporal,  roused  into  affection,  hobbled  up  to  the  wan- 
derer and  seized  and  kissed  his  hand.  "Ah,  sir,  we  shall  be 
glad  indeed  to  see  you  back  after  such  doings.  But 's  all 
forgotten  now,  and  gone  by,  augh.  Poor  Miss  Ellinor,  how 
happy  she  '11  be  to  see  your  honor.  Ah !  how  she  be  changed, 
surely ! " 

"Changed  ?  Ay,  I  make  no  doubt!  What, —  does  she  look 
in  weak  health  ?  " 

"No;  as  to  that,  your  honor,  she  be  winsome  enough  still," 
quoth  the  corporal,  smacking  his  lips.     "  I  seed  her  the  week 

afore  last,  when  I  went  over  to ;  for  I  suppose  you  knows 

as  she  lives  there,  all  alone  like,  in  a  small  house  with  a 
green  rail  afore  it  and  a  brass  knocker  on  the  door  at  top  of 

the  town,  with  a  fine  view  of  the hills  in  front  ?     Well, 

sir,  I  seed  her,  and  mighty  handsome  she  looked,  though  a 
little  thinner  than  she  was ;  but  for  all  that,  she  be  greatly 
changed." 

"  How,  for  the  worse  ?  " 

"For  the  worse  indeed,"  answered  the  corporal,  assuming 
an  air  of  melancholy  and  grave  significance ;  "  she  be  grown 
so  religious,  sir,  think  of  that,  —  augh,  bother,  whaugh!" 

"  Is  that  all  ? "  said  Walter,  relieved,  and  with  a  slight 
smile.     "  And  she  lives  alone  ?  " 

"  Quite,  poor  young  lady,  as  if  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  be  an  old  maid, —  though  I  know  as  how  she  refused  Squire 
Knyvett  of  the  Grange;  waiting  for  your  honor's  return, 
mayhap ! " 

"  Lead  out  the  horse,  Bunting.  But  stay,  I  am  sorry  to  see 
you  with  a  crutch :  what 's  the  cause  ?    No  accident,  I  trust  ?  " 


424  EUGENE   ARAM. 

"Merely  rheumatics, —  will  attack  the  youngest  of  us. 
Never  been  quite  myself  since  I  went  a  travelling  with  your 
honor,  augh !  without  going  to  Lunnon  arter  all.  But  I  shall 
be  stronger  next  year,  I  dare  to  say !  " 

"  I  hope  you  will,  Bunting.  And  Miss  Lester  lives  alone, 
you  say  ? " 

"Ay;  and  for  all  she  be  so  religious,  the  poor  about  do  bless 
her  very  footsteps.  She  does  a  power  of  good, —  she  gave  me 
half-a-guinea  last  Tuesday  fortnight.  An  excellent  young 
lady,   so  sensible  like !  " 

"Thank  you;  I  can  tighten  the  girths, —  so!  There,  Bunt- 
ing, there  's  something  for  old  companionship's  sake." 

"Thank  your  honor;  you  be  too  good, —  always  was,  baugh! 
But  I  hopes  your  honor  be  a  coming  to  live  here  now;  'twill 
make  things  smile  again!  " 

"No,  Bunting,  I  fear  not,"  said  Walter,  spurring  through 
the  gates  of  the  yard.     "Good  day." 

"Augh!  then,"  cried  the  corporal,  hobbling  breathlessly 
after  him,  "  if  so  be  as  I  sha  'n't  see  your  honor  agin,  at 
which  I  am  extramely  consarned,  will  your  honor  recollect 
your  promise  touching  the  'tato-grotind  ?  The  steward,  Mas- 
ter Bailey,   'od  rot  him!   has  clean  forgot  it,  augh!" 

"  The  same  old  man,  Bunting,  eh  ?  Well,  make  your  mind 
easy;  it  shall  be  done." 

" Lord  bless  your  honor's  good  heart,  thank  ye;  and  —  and," 
laying  his  hand  on  the  bridle,  "your  honor  did  say  the  bit  cot 
should  be  rent-free.  You  see,  your  honor,"  quoth  the  corpo- 
ral, drawing  up  with  a  grave  smile,  "I  may  marry  some  day 
or  other,  and  have  a  large  family,  and  the  rent  won't  sit  so 
easy  then,   augh !  " 

"Let  go  the  rein.  Bunting,  and  consider  your  house  rent- 
free." 

"  And  your  honor,  and  —  " 

But  Walter  was  already  in  a  brisk  trot,  and  the  remaining 
petitions  of  the  corporal  died  in  empty  air. 

"A  good  day's  work  too,"  muttered  Jacob,  hobbling  home- 
ward. "  What  a  green  'un  't  is,  still !  Never  be  a  man  of  the 
world,   augh !  " 


EUGENE   ARAM.  425 

For  two  hours  Walter  did  not  relax  the  rapidity  of  his  pace ; 
and  when  he  did  so,  at  the  descent  of  a  steep  hill,  a  small 
country  town  lay  before  him,  the  sun  glittering  on  its  single 
spire,  and  lighting  up  the  long,  clean  centre  street,  with  the 
good  old-fashioned  garden  stretching  behind  each  house,  and 
detached  cottages  around,  peeping  forth  here  and  there  from 
the  blossoms  and  verdure  of  the  young  May.  He  rode  into 
the  yard  of  the  principal  inn,  and  putting  up  his  horse,  in- 
quired, in  a  tone  that  he  persuaded  himself  was  the  tone  of 
indifference,  for  Miss  Lester's  house. 

"John,"  said  the  landlady  (landlord  there  was  none),  sum- 
moning a  little  boy  of  about  ten  years  old,  "  run  on  and  show 
this  gentleman  the  good  lady's  house;  and,  stay,  —  his  honor 
will  excuse  you  a  moment, —  just  take  up  the  nosegay  you 
cut  for  her  this  morning;  she  loves  flowers.  Ah!  sir,  an  ex- 
cellent young  lady  is  Miss  Lester,"  continued  the  hostess  as 
the  boy  ran  back  for  the  nosegay, —  "so  charitable,  so  kind, 
so  meek  to  all.  Adversity,  they  say,  softens  some  characters ; 
but  she  must  always  have  been  good.  Well,  God  bless  her! 
and  that  every  one  must  say.  My  boy  John,  sir,  —  he  is  not 
eleven  yet,  come  next  August,  a  'cute  boy, —  calls  her  the 
good  lady;  we  now  always  call  her  so  here.  Come,  John, 
that 's  right.  You  stay  to  dine  here,  sir  ?  Shall  I  put  down 
a  chicken  ?  " 

At  the  farther  extremity  of  the  town  stood  Miss  Lester's 
dwelling.  It  was  the  house  in  which  her  father  had  spent  his 
last  days ;  and  there  she  had  continued  to  reside  when  left  by 
his  death  to  a  small  competence,  which  Walter,  then  abroad, 
had  persuaded  her  (for  her  pride  was  of  the  right  kind)  to 
suffer  him,  though  but  slightly,  to  increase.  It  was  a  de- 
tached and  small  building,  standing  a  little  from  the  road; 
and  Walter  paused  for  some  moments  at  the  garden-gate  and 
gazed  round  him  before  he  followed  his  young  guide,  who, 
tripping  lightly  up  the  gravel-walk  to  the  door,  rang  the  bell 
and  inquired  if  Miss  Lester  was  within. 

Walter  was  left  for  some  moments  alone  in  a  little  parlor, 
—  he  required  these  moments  to  recover  himself  from  the  past 
that  rushed  sweepingly  over  him.     And  was  it  —  yes,  it  was 


426  EUGENE   ARAM. 

Ellinor  that  now  stood  before  him !  Changed  she  was  indeed, 
—  the  slight  girl  had  budded  into  woman;  changed  she  was 
indeed,  —  the  bound  liad  forever  left  that  step,  once  so  elastic 
with  hope;  the  vivacity  of  the  quick  dark  eye  was  soft  and 
quiet ;  the  rich  color  had  given  place  to  a  hue  fainter,  though 
not  less  lovely.  But  to  repeat  in  verse  what  is  poorly  bodied 
forth  in  prose, — 

"  And  years  had  passed,  and  thus  they  met  again. 
The  wind  had  swept  along  the  flowers  since  then  ; 
O'er  her  fair  cheek  a  paler  lustre  spread, 
As  if  the  white  rose  triumphed  o'er  the  red. 
No  more  she  walked,  exulting,  on  the  air ; 
Light  though  her  step,  there  was  a  languor  there. 
No  more  —  her  spirit  bursting  from  its  hound — 
She  stood,  like  Hebe,  scattering  smiles  around." 

"  Ellinor, "  said  Walter,  mournfully,  "  thank  God,  we  meet 
at  last!" 

"  That  voice  —  that  face  —  my  cousin  —  my  dear,  dear 
Walter!" 

All  reserve,  all  consciousness  fled  in  the  delight  of  that  mo- 
ment; and  Ellinor  leaned  her  head  upon  his  shoulder  and 
scarcely  felt  the  kiss  that  he  pressed  upon  her  lips. 

"And  so  long  absent!  "  said  Ellinor,  reproachfully, 

"But  did  you  not  tell  me  that  the  blow  that  had  fallen  on 
our  house  had  stricken  from  you  all  thoughts  of  love,  had  di- 
vided us  forever  ?  And  what,  Ellinor,  was  England  or  home 
without  you  ?  " 

"Ah!  "  said  Ellinor,  recovering  herself,  and  a  deep  paleness 
succeeding  to  the  warm  and  delighted  flush  that  had  been 
conjured  to  her  cheek,  "  do  not  revive  the  past ;  I  have  sought 
for  years  —  long,  solitary,  desolate  years  —  to  escape  from  its 
dark  recollections ! " 

"You  speak  wisely,  dearest  Ellinor;  let  us  assist  each  other 
in  doing  so.  We  are  alone  in  the  world, —  let  us  unite  our 
lots.  Never,  through  all  I  have  seen  and  felt, —  in  the  starry 
nightwatch  of  camps;  in  the  blaze  of  courts;  by  the  sunny 
groves  of  Italy;    in   the  deep   forests  of  the  Hartz, —  never 


EUGENE  ARAM.  427 

have  I  forgotten  you,  my  sweet  and  dear  cousin.  Your  image 
has  linked  itself  indissolubly  with  all  I  conceived  of  home 
and  happiness  and  a  tranquil  and  peaceful  future ;  and  now 
I  return,  and  see  you,  and  find  you  changed, —  but  oh,  how 
lovely!  Ah,  let  us  not  part  again!  A  consoler,  a  guide,  a 
soother,  father,  brother,  husband, — all  this  my  heart  whis- 
pers I  could  be  to  you !  " 

Ellinor  turned  away  her  face,  but  her  heart  was  very  full. 
The  solitary  years  that  had  passed  over  her  since  they  last  met 
rose  up  before  her.  The  only  living  image  that  had  mingled 
through  those  years  with  the  dreams  of  the  departed  was  his 
who  now  knelt  at  her  feet,  —  her  sole  friend,  her  sole  relative, 
her  first  —  her  last  love!  Of  all  the  world,  he  was  the  only 
one  with  whom  she  could  recur  to  the  past,  on  whom  she 
might  repose  her  bruised  but  still  unconquered  affections. 
And  Walter  knew  by  that  blush,  that  sigh,  that  tear  that  he 
was  remembered,  that  he  was  beloved,  that  his  cousin  was 
his  OAvn  at  last! 

"But  before  you  end,"  said  my  friend  to  whom  I  showed 
the  above  pages,  originally  concluding  my  tale  with  the  last 
sentence,  "you  must  —  it  is  a  comfortable  and  orthodox  old 
fashion  —  tell  us  about  the  fate  of  the  other  persons  to  whom 
you  have  introduced  us,  —  the  wretch  Houseman." 

"  True,  in  the  mysterious  course  of  mortal  affairs  the  greater 
villain  had  escaped,  the  more  generous  fallen.  But  though 
Houseman  died  without  violence, —  died  in  his  bed,  as  honest 
men  die, —  we  can  scarcely  believe  that  his  life  was  not  pun- 
ishment enough.  He  lived  in  strict  seclusion,  —  the  seclusion 
of  poverty,  —  and  maintained  himself  by  dressing  flax.  His 
life  was  several  times  attempted  by  the  mob,  for  he  was  an 
object  of  universal  execration  and  horror;  and  even  ten  years 
afterwards,  when  he  died,  his  body  was  buried  in  secret  at 
the  dead  of  night,  for  the  hatred  of  the  world  survived  him." 

"  And  the  corporal,  did  he  marry  in  his  old  age  ?  " 

"  History  telleth  of  one  Jacob  Bunting  whose  wife,  several 
years  younger  than  himself,  played  him  certain  sorry  pranks 
with   a  rakish  squire  in  the  neighborhood;    the   said  Jacob 


428  EUGENE  ARAM. 

knowing  nothing  thereof,  but  furnishing  great  oblectation 
unto  his  neighbors  by  boasting  that  he  turned  an  excellent 
penny  by  selling  poultry  to  his  honor  above  market  prices, — 
"for  Bessy,  my  girl,  I  'm  a  man  of  the  world,  augh!  " 

"Contented!  a  suitable  fate  for  the  old  dog.  But  Peter 
Dealtry  ?  " 

"Of  Peter  Dealtry  know  we  nothing  more,  save  that  we 
have  seen  at  Grassdale  church-yard  a  small  tombstone  in- 
scribed to  his  memory,  with  the  following  sacred  posy  thereto 
appended : — 

" '  We  flourish,  saith  the  holy  text, 

One  hour,  and  are  cut  down  the  next ; 

I  was  like  grass  but  yesterday. 

But  deatli  has  mowed  me  into  hay.'  "^ 

"And  his  namesake,  Sir  Peter  Grindlescrew  Hales  ?" 

"  Went  through  a  long  life  honored  and  respected,  but  met 
with  domestic  misfo^'tunes  in  old  age.  His  eldest  son  married 
a  servant-maid,  and  his  youngest  daughter  — " 

"  Eloped  with  the  groom  ?  " 

"By  no  means, —  with  a  young  spendthrift,  the  very  picture 
of  what  Sir  Peter  was  in  his  youth.  They  were  both  struck 
out  of  their  father's  will;  and  Sir  Peter  died  in  the  arms  of 
his  eight  remaining  children,  seven  of  whom  never  forgave 
his  memory  for  not  being  the  eighth,  — namely,  chief  heir." 

"And  his  contemporary,  John  Courtland,  the  non-hypo- 
chondriac ?  " 

"  Died  of  sudden  suffocation  as  he  was  crossing  Hounslow 
Heath." 

"But  Lord ?" 

"Lived  to  a  great  age.  His  last  days,  owing  to  growing 
infirmities,  were  spent  out  of  the  world;  every  one  pitied 
him,  —  it  was  the  happiest  time  of  his  life." 

"  Dame  Darkmans  ?  " 

"Was  found  dead  in  her  bed,  —  from  over-fatigue,  it  was 
supposed,  in  making  merry  at  the  funeral  of  a  young  girl  on 
the  previous  day." 

^  Verbatim. 


EUGENE  ARAM.  429 

"Well! — hem  —  and  so  Walter  and  his  cousin  were  really 
married.  And  did  they  never  return  to  the  old  manor- 
house  ?  " 

"No;  the  memory  that  is  allied  only  to  melancholy  grows 
sweet  with  years,  and  hallows  the  spot  which  it  haunts, —  not 
so  the  memory  allied  to  dread,  terror,  and  something  too  of 
shame.  Walter  sold  the  property,  with  some  pangs  of  natural 
regret;  after  his  marriage  with  Ellinor  he  returned  abroad 
for  some  time,  but  finally  settling  in  England,  engaged  in  ac- 
tive life,  and  left  to  his  posterity  a  name  they  still  honor, 
and  to  his  country  the  memory  of  some  services  that  will  not 
lightly  pass  away. 

"  But  one  dread  and  gloomy  remembrance  never  forsook  his 
mind,  and  exercised  the  most  powerful  influence  over  the 
actions  and  motives  of  his  life.  In  every  emergency,  in  every 
temptation,  there  rose  to  his  eyes  the  fate  of  him  so  gifted, 
so  noble  in  much,  so  formed  for  greatness  in  all  things, 
blasted  by  one  crime, —  a  crime,  the  offspring  of  bewildered 
reasonings, —  all  the  while  speculating  upon  virtue.  And  that 
fate,  revealing  the  darker  secrets  of  our  kind,  in  which  the 
true  science  of  morals  is  chiefly  found,  taught  him  the  two- 
fold lesson, —  caution  for  himself,  and  charity  for  others.  He 
knew  henceforth  that  even  the  criminal  is  not  all  evil;  the 
angel  within  us  is  not  easily  expelled, —  it  survives  sin,  ay, 
and  many  sins,  and  leaves  us  sometimes  in  amaze  and  marvel 
at  the  good  that  lingers  round  the  heart  even  of  the  hardiest 
offender. 

"  And  Ellinor  clung  with  more  than  revived  affection  to  one 
with  whose  lot  she  was  now  allied.  Walter  was  her  last  tie 
upon  earth,  and  in  him  she  learned,  day  by  day,  more  lav- 
ishly to  treasure  up  her  heart.  Adversity  and  trial  had  en- 
nobled the  character  of  both ;  and  she  who  had  so  long  seen  in 
her  cousin  all  she  could  love,  beheld  now  in  her  husband  all 
that  she  could  venerate  and  admire.  A  certain  religious  fer- 
vor, in  which,  after  the  calamities  of  her  family,  she  had 
indulged,  continued  with  her  to  the  last;  but  (softened  by 
human  ties  and  the  reciprocation  of  earthly  duties  and  affec- 
tions) it  was   fortunately  preserved   either   from  the   undue 


430  EUGENE  ARAM. 

enthusiasm  or  the  undue  austerity  into  which  it  would  other- 
wise, in  all  likelihood,  have  merged.  What  remained,  how- 
ever, uniting  her  most  cheerful  thoughts  with  something 
serious,  and  the  happiest  moments  of  the  present  with  the 
dim  and  solemn  forecast  of  the  future,  elevated  her  nature, 
not  depressed,  and  made  itself  visible  rather  in  tender  than 
in  sombre  hues.  And  it  was  sweet,  when  the  thought  of 
Madeline  and  her  father  came  across  her,  to  recur  at  once  for 
consolation  to  that  heaven  in  which  she  believed  their  tears 
were  dried,  and  their  past  sorrows  but  a  forgotten  dream. 
There  is,  indeed,  a  time  of  life  when  these  reflections  make 
our  chief,  though  a  melancholy,  pleasure.  As  we  grow  older, 
and  sometimes  a  hope,  sometimes  a  friend,  vanishes  from  our 
path,  the  thought  of  an  immortality  will  press  itself  forcibly 
upon  us ;  and  there,  by  little  and  little,  as  the  ant  piles  grain 
after  grain,  the  garners  of  a  future  sustenance,  we  learn  to 
carry  our  hopes  and  harvest,  as  it  were,  our  wishes. 

"Our  cousins,  then,  were  happy.  Happy, —  for  they  loved 
one  another  entirely;  and  on  those  who  do  so  love,  I  some- 
times think  that,  barring  physical  pain  and  extreme  poverty, 
the  ills  of  life  fall  with  but  idle  malice.  Yes,  they  were 
happy,  in  spite  of  the  past  and  in  defiance  of  the  future." 

"I  am  satisfied,  then,"  said  my  friend,  "and  your  tale  is 
fairly  done ! " 

And  now,  reader,  farewell !  If  sometimes,  as  thou  hast  gone 
with  me  to  this  our  parting  spot,  thou  hast  suffered  thy  com- 
panion to  win  the  mastery  over  thine  interest,  to  flash  now  on 
thy  convictions,  to  touch  now  thy  heart,  to  guide  thy  hope,  to 
excite  thy  terror,  to  gain,  it  may  be,  to  the  sources  of  thy 
tears, —  then  is  there  a  tie  between  thee  and  me  which  cannot 
readily  be  broken!  And  when  thou  hearest  the  malice  that 
wrongs,  affect  the  candor  which  should  judge,  shall  he  not  find 
in  thy  sympathies  the  defence,  or  in  thy  charity  the  indul- 
gence, of  a  friend  ? 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


In  the  Preface  to  this  Novel  it  was  stated  that  the  original  intention 
of  its  Author  was  to  compose,  upon  the  facts  of  Aram's  gloomy  history, 
a  tragedy  instead  of  a  romance.  It  may  now  be  not  altogether  without 
interest  for  the  reader  if  1  submit  to  his  indulgence  the  rough  outline 
of  the  earlier  scenes  in  the  fragment  of  a  drama,  which,  in  all  proba- 
bility, will  never  be  finished.  So  far  as  I  have  gone,  the  construction 
of  the  tragedy  differs,  in  some  respects,  materially  from  that  of  the 
tale,  although  the  whole  of  what  is  now  presented  to  the  reader  must 
be  considered  merely  as  a  copy  from  the  first  hasty  sketch  of  an  uncom- 
pleted design. 

November,  1833. 


EUGENE    ARAM, 

A  TRAGEDY. 


ACT    I. 


Scene  I.  Aram's  Apartment.  —  Books,  Maps,  and  Scientific 
Instruments  scattered  around.  In  everything  else  the  appear' 
ance  of  the  greatest  poverty. 

First    Creditor    [hehiyid  the   scenes']. — I   must   be   paid. 
Three  moons  have  flitted  since 
You  pledged  your  word  to  me. 

Second  Creditor.  And  me ! 

Third  Creditor.  And  me ! 

Aram  [entering].  —  Away,  I  tell  ye !  Will  ye  rend  my  garb  ? 
Away  !  to-morrow.  —  Gentle  sirs,  to-morrow. 

First  Creditor.     This  is  your  constant  word. 

Second   Creditor.  We  '11  wait  no  more. 

Aram.    Ye  '11  wait  no  more  ?    Enough  !   be  seated,  sirs. 
Pray  ye,  be  seated.     Well !  with  searching  eyes 
Ye  do  survey  these  walls  !     Contain  they  aught  — 
Nay,  take  your  leisure  —  to  annul  your  claims  ? 
\^Turning  to  First   Creditor].    See,    sir,  yon  books  —  they're 

yours,  if  you  but  tear 
That  fragment  of  spoiled  paper  —  be  not  backward, 
I  give  them  with  good  will.     This  one  is  Greek ; 
A  golden  work  —  sweet  sir  —  a  golden  work  ; 
It  teaches  us  to  bear  —  what  I  have  borne  !  — 
And  to  forbear  men's  ills,  as  you  have  done. 

28 


434  EUGENE  ARAM, 

First  Creditor.     You  mock  me.     Well  — 

Aram.  Mock !  mock !  Alas  ! 

my  friend, 
Bo  rags  indulge  in  jesting  ?     Fie,  sir,  fie  ! 
[  Turning  to  Second  Creditor'] .     You  will  not  wrong  me  so  ? 

Ou  your  receipt 
Take  this  round  orb  ;  it  miniatures  the  world,  — 
And  in  its  study  I  forgot  the  world  ! 
Take  this  yon  table ;  —  a  poor  scholar's  fare 
Needs  no  such  proud  support ;  —  yon  bed,  too  !     (Sleep 
Is  Night's  sweet  angel,  leading  fallen  Man 
Thro'  yielding  airs  to  Youth's  lost  paradise  ; 
But  Sleep  and  I  have  quarrell'd ) ;  —  take  it,  sir  ! 

Second  Creditor  \_mnttering  to  the  others'].    Come,  we  must 

leave  him  to  the  law,  or  famine. 
You  see  his  goods  were  costly  at  a  groat ! 

First  Creditor.     Well,  henceforth  I  will  grow  more  wise  ! 

'  T  is  said 
Learning  is  better  than  a  house  or  lands. 
Let  me  be  modest !     Learning  shall  go  free  ; 
Give  me  security  in  house  and  lands. 

Third  Creditor  [lingering  after  the  other  two  depart,  offers 

a  piece  of  money  to  Aram].    There,  man ;  I  came  to  men- 
ace you  with  law 
And  jails.     You  're  poorer  than  I  thought  you !  —  there  — 
Aram    [looking  at  the  money'].    What!    and  a  beggar,  too! 

'  T  is  mighty  well. 
Good  sir,  I  'm  grateful  —  I  will  not  refuse  you  ; 
'  T  will  win  back  Plato  from  the  crabbed  hands 
Of  him  who  lends  on  all  things.     Thank  you,  sir ; 
Plato  and  I  will  thank  you. 

Third  Creditor.  Crazed,  poor  scholar ! 

I  '11  take  my  little  one  from  school  this  day ! 

Scene  IL 

Aram.  Rogues  thrive  in  ease  ;  and  fools  grow  rich  with  toil ; 
Wealth's  wanton  eye  on  Wisdom  coldly  dwells. 
And  turns  to  dote  upon  the  green  youth,  Folly  — 


A  TRAGEDY.  435 

0  life,  vile  life,  with  what  soul-lavish  love 

We  cling  to  thee  —  when  all  thy  charms  are  fled  — 

Yea,  the  more  foul  thy  withering  aspect  grows 

The  steadier  burns  our  passion  to  possess  thee. 

To  die  ;  ay,  there  's  the  cure  —  tlie  plashing  stream 

That  girds  these  walls  —  the  drug  of  the  dank  weeds 

That  rot  the  air  below  ;  these  hoard  the  balm 

For  broken,  pining,  and  indignant  hearts. 

But  the  witch  Hope  forbids  me  to  be  wise  ; 

And,  when  I  turn  to  these,  Woe's  only  friends  [pointing  to  his 

books] 
And  with  their  weird  and  eloquent  voices,  soothe 
The  lulled  Babel  of  the  world  within, 

1  can  but  dream  that  my  vexed  years  at  last 
Shall  find  the  quiet  of  a  hermit's  cell. 

And  far  from  men's  rude  malice  or  low  scorn, 
Beneath  the  loved  gaze  of  the  lambent  stars ; 
And  with  the  hollow  rocks,  and  sparry  caves, 
And  mystic  waves,  and  music-murmuring  winds  — 
My  oracles  and  co-mates  —  watch  my  life 
Glide  down  the  stream  of  knowledge,  and  behold 
Its  waters  with  a  musing  stillness  glass 
The  smiles  of  Nature  and  the  eyes  of  Heaven  ! 

Sce:n^e  III.  Enter  Boteler,  sloicly  tvatching  him;  as  he  re- 
mains silent  and  in  thought,  Boteler  touches  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

Boteler.  How  now  !  what !  gloomy  ?  and  the  day  so  bright ! 
Why,  the  old  dog  that  guards  the  court  below 
Hath  crept  from  out  his  wooden  den,  and  shakes 
His  gray  hide  in  the  fresh  and  merry  air ; 
Tuning  his  sullen  and  suspicious  bark 
Into  a  whine  of  welcome  as  I  pass'd. 
Come,  rouse  thee,  Aram ;  let  us  forth. 

Aram.  Nay,  friend, 

My  spirit  lackeys  not  the  moody  skies, 
Nor  changes  —  bright  or  darkling  —  with  their  change. 


436  EUGENE  ARAM, 

Farewell,  good  neighbor ;  I  must  work  this  day  ;  — 
Behold  my  tools  —  and  scholars  toil  alone  ! 

BoTELER.    Tush  !  a  few  minutes  wasted  upon  me 
May  well  be  spared  from  this  long  summer  day. 
Hast  heard  the  news  ?     Monson  ?  — thou  know'st  the  man  ? 

Aram.    I  do  remember.     He  was  poor.     I  knew  him. 

BoTELER.     But  he  is  poor  no  more.    The  all-changing  wheel 
Roll'd  round,  and  scatter'd  riches  on  his  hearth. 
A  distant  kinsman,  while  he  lived  a  niggard, 
Generous  in  death  hath  left  his  grateful  heir 
In  our  good  neighbor.     Why,  you  seem  not  glad ; 
Does  it  not  please  you  ? 

Aram,  Yes. 

BoTELER.  And  so  it  should  ; 

'  T  is  a  poor  fool,  but  honest.     Had  Dame  Fate 
Done  this  for  you  —  for  me  ;  —  't  is  true  our  brains 
Had  taught  us  better  how  to  spend  the  dross ; 
But  earth  hath  worse  men  than  our  neighbor. 

Aram.  Ay, 

"  Worse  men  "  !  it  may  be  so  ! 

BoTELER.  Would  I  were  rich ! 

What  loyal  service,  what  complacent  friendship, 
What  gracious  love  upon  the  lips  of  Beauty, 
Bloom  into  life  beneath  the  beams  of  gold. 
Venus  and  Bacchus,  the  bright  Care-dispellers, 
Are  never  seen  but  in  the  train  of  Fortune. 
Would  I  were  rich  ! 

Aram.  Shame  on  thy  low  ambition ! 

Would  I  were  rich,  too,  —  but  for  other  aims. 
Oh !  what  a  glorious  and  time-hallow'd  world 
Would  I  invoke  around  me  :  and  wall  in 
A  haunted  solitude  with  those  bright  souls. 
That,  with  a  still  and  warning  aspect,  gaze 
Upon  us  from  the  hallowing  shroud  of  books  ! 
By  Heaven,  there  should  not  be  a  seer  who  left 
The  world  one  doctrine,  but  I  'd  task  his  lore, 
And  commune  with  his  spirit !     All  the  truths 
Of  all  the  tongues  of  earth  —  I  'd  have  them  all, 


A   TRAGEDY.  437 

Had  I  the  golden  spell  to  raise  their  ghosts  ! 

I  'd  build  me  domes,  too ;  from  whose  giddy  height 

My  soul  would  watch  the  night  stars,  and  unsphere 

The  destinies  of  man,  or  track  the  ways 

Of  God  from  world  to  world ;  pursue  the  winds, 

The  clouds  that  womb  the  thunder  —  to  their  home  j 

Invoke  and  conquer  Nature  —  share  her  throne 

On  earth,  and  ocean,  and  the  chainless  air ; 

And  on  the  Titan  fabrics  of  old  truths 

Eaise  the  bold  spirit  to  a  height  with  heaven  ! 

Would  —  would  my  life  might  boast  one  year  of  wealth 

Though  death  should  bound  it ! 

BoTELER.  Thou  mayst  have  thy  wish  ! 

Aram  \_rapt,  and  abstractedly'].     Who  spoke  ?     Methoughtl 
heard  my  genius  say  — 
My  evil  genius  —  "  Thou  mayst  have  thy  wish  ! " 

BoTELER.    Thou  heard'st  aright !    Monson  this  eve  will  pass 
By  Nid's  swift  wave ;  he  bears  his  gold  with  him  ; 
The  spot  is  lone  —  untenanted  —  remote  ; 
And,  if  thou  hast  but  courage,  —  one  bold  deed. 
And  one  short  moment  —  thou  art  poor  no  more  ! 

Aram    [after   a  pause,  turning  his  eyes  slowly  on  Boteler]. 
Boteler,  was  that  thy  voice  ? 

BoTELER.  How  couldst  thou  doubt  it  ? 

Aram.       Methought   its   tone   seem'd  changed ;    and   now 
methinks, 
Now,  that  I  look  upon  thy  face,  my  eyes 
Discover  not  its  old  familiar  aspect. 
Thou  'rt  very  sure  thy  name  is  Boteler  ? 

BoTELER.  Pshaw, 

Thou'rt  dreaming  still :  —  awake,  and  let  thy  mind 
And  heart  drink  all  I  breathe  into  thy  ear. 
I  know  thee,  Aram,  for  a  man  humane, 
Gentle,  and  musing ;  but  withal  of  stuff 
That  might  have  made  a  warrior ;  and  desires, 
Though  of  a  subtler  nature  than  my  own, 
As  high,  and  hard  to  limit.     Care  and  want 
Have  made  thee  what  they  made  thy  friend  long  since. 


438  .  EUGENE   ARAM, 

And  when  I  wound  my  heart  to  a  resolve, 
Dangerous,  but  fraught  with  profit,  I  did  fix 
On  thee  as  one  whom  Fate  and  jSTature  made 
A  worthy  partner  in  the  nameless  deed. 

Aram.     Go  on.     I  pray  thee  pause  not. 

BoTELER.  There  remain 

Few  words  to  body  forth  my  full  design. 
Know  that  —  at  my  advice  —  this  eve  the  guli'd 
And  credulous  fool  of  Fortune  quits  his  home. 
Say  but  one  word,  and  thou  shalt  share  with  me 
The  gold  he  bears  about  him. 

Aram.  At  what  price  ? 

BoTELER.     A  little  courage. 

Aram.  And  my  soul !  —  No  more. 

I  see  your  project  — 

BoTELER.  And  embrace  it  ? 

Aram.  Lo  ! 

How  many  deathful,  dread,  and  ghastly  snares 
Encompass  him  whom  the  stark  hunger  gnaws, 
And  the  grim  demon  Penury  shuts  from  out 
The  golden  Eden  of  his  bright  desires  ! 
To-day,  I  thought  to  slay  myself,  and  die, 
No  single  hope  once  won  !  —  and  now  I  hear 
Dark  words  of  blood,  and  quail  not,  nor  recoil.  — 
'  T  is  but  a  death  in  either  case  ;  —  or  mine 
Or  that  poor  dotard's  !  —  and  the  guilt  —  the  guilt,  — 
Why,  what  is  guilt  ?  —  A  word  !     We  are  the  tools, 
From  birth  to  death,  of  destiny  ;  and  shaped, 
For  sin  or  virtue,  by  the  iron  force 
Of  the  unseen,  but  unresisted  hands 
Of  Fate,  the  august  compeller  of  the  world. 

BoTELER  [aside].  —  It  works.  Behold  the  devil  at  all  hearts  ! 
I  am  a  soldier,  and  inured  to  blood ; 
But  he  hath  lived  with  moralists  forsooth. 
And  yet  one  word  to  tempt  him,  and  one  sting 
Of  the  food-craving  clay,  and  the  meek  sage 
Grasps  at  the  crime  he  shuddered  at  before. 

Aram  [abruptly].     Thou  hast  broke  thy  fast  this  morning  ? 


A  TRAGEDY.  439 

BoTELER.  Ay,  in  truth. 

Aram.     But  /  have  not  since  yestermorn,  and  ask'd 
In  the  belief  that  certain  thoughts  unwont 
To  blacken  the  still  mirror  of  my  mind 
Might  be  the  phantoms  of  the  sickening  flesh 
And  the  faint  nature.     I  was  wrong  ;  since  you 
Share  the  same  thoughts,  nor  suffer  the  same  ills. 

BoTELER.     Indeed,  I  knew  not  this.     Come  to  my  roof: 
'  T  is  poor,  but  not  so  bare  as  to  deny 
A  soldier's  viands  to  a  scholar's  wants. 
Come,  and  we  '11  talk  this  over.     I  perceive 
That  your  bold  heart  already  is  prepared. 
And  the  details  alone  remain.  —  Come,  friend, 
Lean  upon  me,  for  you  seem  weak ;  the  air 
Will  breathe  this  languor  into  health. 

Aram.  Your  hearth 

Is  widow'd,  —  we  shall  be  alone  ? 

BoTELER.  Alone. 

Aram.     Come,  then  ;  —  the  private  way.    We  '11  shun  the 
crowd. 
I  do  not  love  the  insolent  eyes  of  men. 


Scene  IV.     NigJit  —  a   wild  and  gloomy  Forest  —  the  River 
at  a  distance. 

Enter  Aram  slowly. 

Aram.    Were  it  but  done,  methinks  '  t  would  scarce  bequeath 
Much  food  for  that  dull  hypocrite.  Remorse. 
'  T  is  a  fool  less  on  earth  !  —  a  clod  —  a  grain 
From  the  o'er-rich  creation ;  —  be  it  so. 
But  I,  in  one  brief  year,  could  give  to  men 
More  solid,  glorious,  undecaying  good 
Than  his  whole  life  could  purchase  : — yet  without 
The  pitiful  and  niggard  dross  he  wastes. 
And  /  for  lacking  starve,  my  power  is  nought. 


440  EUGENE  ARAM, 

And  the  whole  good  undone  !     Where,  then,  the  crime, 
Though  by  dread  means,  to  compass  that  bright  end  ? 
And  yet  —  and  yet  —  I  falter,  and  my  liesh 
Creeps,  and  the  horror  of  a  ghastly  thought 
Makes  stiff  my  hair,  —  my  blood  is  cold,  —  my  knees 
Do  smite  each  other,  —  and  throughout  my  frame 
Stern  manhood  melts  away.     Blow  forth,  sweet  air, 
Brace  the  mute  nerves,  —  release  the  gathering  ice 
That  curdles  up  my  veins,  —  call  forth  the  soul, 
That,  with  a  steady  and  unfailing  front. 
Hath  look'd  on  want,  and  woe,  and  early  death  — 
And  walk'd  with  thee,  sweet  air,  upon  thy  course 
Away  from  earth  through  the  rejoicing  heaven ! 
Who  moves  there  ?  —     Speak !  —  who  art  thou  ? 


Scene  V. 

Enter  Boteler. 

BoTELER.  Murdoch  Boteler ! 

Hast  thou  forestall'd  me  ?     Come,  this  bodeth  well : 
It  proves  thy  courage,  Aram. 

Aram.  Rather  say 

The  restless  fever  that  does  spur  us  on 
From  a  dark  thought  unto  a  darker  deed. 

Boteler.     He  should  have  come  ere  this. 

Aram.  I  pray  thee,  Boteler, 

Is  it  not  told  of  some  great  painter  —  whom 
Rome  bore,  and  earth  yet  worships  —  that  he  slew 
A  man  —  a  brother  man  —  and  without  ire. 
But  with  cool  heart  and  hand,  that  he  might  fix 
His  gaze  upon  the  wretch's  dying  pangs  ; 
And  by  them  learn  what  mortal  throes  to  paint 
On  the  wrung  features  of  a  suffering  god  ? 

Boteler.     Ay  :  I  have  heard  the  tale. 

Aram.  And  Tie  is  honor'd. 

Men  vaunt  his  glory,  but  forget  his  guilt. 


A   TRAGEDY.  441 

They  see  the  triumph;  nor,  with  woliish  tongues, 
Feed  on  the  deed  from  which  the  triumph  grew. 
Is  it  not  so  ? 

BoTELER.         Thou  triflest :  this  no  hour 
For  tlie  light  legends  of  a  gossip's  lore  — 

Aram.     Peace,  man !     I  did  but  question  of  the  fact. 
Enough.  —  I  marvel  why  our  victim  lingers. 

BoTELER.     Hush !  dost  thou  hear  no  footsteps  ?  —     Ha,  he 
comes, 
I  see  him  by  yon  pine-tree.     Look,  he  smiles  ; 
Smiles  as  he  walks,  and  sings  — 

Aram.  Alas  !  poor  fool ! 

So  sport  we  all,  while  over  us  the  pall 
Hangs,  and  Fate's  viewless  hands  prepare  our  shroud. 


Scene  VI. 

Enter  Monson. 

MoNSON.     Ye  have  not  waited,  sirs  ? 

Boteler.  N"ay,  name  it  not. 

MoNSON.     The  nights  are  long  and  bright :  an  hour  the  less 
Makes  little  discount  from  the  time. 

Aram.  An  hour! 

What  deeds  an  hour  may  witness  ! 

MoNSON.  It  is  true. 

[To  Boteler].  — Doth  he  upbraid  ?  —  he  has  a  gloomy  brow : 
I  like  him  not. 

Boteler.  The  husk  hides  goodly  fruit. 

'  T  is  a  deep  scholar,  Monson ;  and  the  gloom 
Is  not  of  malice,  but  of  learned  thought. 

MoNsoN.     Say'st  thou  ?  —  I  love  a  scholar.     Let  us  on : 
We  will  not  travel  far  to-night  ? 

Aram.  Not  far! 

Boteler.     Why,  as  our  limbs  avail ;  —  thou  hast  the  gold  ? 

Monson.     Ay,  and  my  wife  suspects  not.  \_Laugliing. 


442  EUGENE  ARAM, 

BoTELER.  Come,  that 's  well. 

I  'm  an  old  soldier,  Monson,  and  I  love 
This  baffling  of  the  Church's  cankering  ties. 
We  '11  find  thee  other  wives,  my  friend  !  —     Who  holds 
The  golden  lure  shall  have  no  lack  of  loves. 

Moxsox.  Ha !  ha  !  —  both  wise  and  merry.  —  [To  Aram.'] 
Come,  sir,  on. 

Aram.     I  follow. 
[Aside].  —  Can  men  sin  thus  in  a  dream  ? 


Scene  VII.  Scene  changes  to  a  different  part  of  the  Forest  —  a 
Cave.,  overhmig  ivith  firs  and  other  trees  —  the  Moon  is  at  her 
full,  but  clouds  are  rolling  swiftly  over  her  disc  —  Aram 
rushes  from  the  Cavern. 

Aram.     '  T  is  done  !  — '  t  is  done  !  — '  t  is  done !  —     A  life 
is  gone 
Out  of  a  crowded  world  !     I  struck  no  more  ! 
0  God !  —  I  did  not  slay  him  !  't  was  not  I! 

[£^?i^er  BoTELER  more  slowly  from  the  Cave,  and  looking  round.] 

BoTELER.     Why  didst  thou  leave  me  ere  our  task  was  o'er  ? 

Aram.     Was  he  not  dead  then  ?  —  Did  he  breathe  again  ? 
Or  cry,  "  Help,  help  "  ?  —  I  did  not  strike  the  blow  ! 

BoTELER.     Dead  !  —  and  no  witness,  save  the  blinded  bat ! 
But  the  gold,  Aram  !  thou  didst  leave  the  gold  ? 

Aram.     The  gold  !     I  had  forgot.     Thou  hast  the  gold. 
Come,  let  us  share,  and  part  — 

BoTELER.  Not  here ;  the  spot 

Is  open,  and  the  rolling  moon  may  light 
Some  wanderer's  footsteps  hither.     To  the  deeps 
Which  the  stars  pierce  not  —  of  the  inmost  wood  — 
We  will  withdraw  and  share  — and  weave  our  plans, 
So  that  the  world  may  know  not  of  this  deed. 

Aram.     Thou  sayest  well !     I  did  not  strike  the  blow  I 
How  red  the  moon  looks  !  let  us  hide  from  her  ! 


A  TRAGEDY.  443 


ACT   II. 

[Time,  Ten  Years  after  the  date  of  the  first  Act.'] 

Scene    I.     Peasants   dancing  —  a   beautiful    Wood  Scene  —  a 
Cottage  in  the  front. 

Madeline  —  Lamboukn  —  Michael. 

[Lambourn  comes  forward.'] 

Come,  my  sweet  Madeline,  though  our  fate  denies 
The  pomp  by  which  the  great  and  wealthy  mark 
The  white  days  of  their  lot,  at  least  thy  sire 
Can  light  with  joyous  faces  and  glad  hearts 
The  annual  morn  which  brought  so  fair  a  boon, 
And  blest  his  rude  hearth  with  a  child  like  thee. 

Madeline.     My  father,  my  dear  father,  since  that  morn 
The  sun  hath  call'd  from  out  the  depth  of  time 
The  shapes  of  twenty  summers  ;  and  no  hour 
That  did  not  own  to  Heaven  thy  love  —  thy  care  ! 

Lamboukn.     Thou  hast  repaid  me ;  and  mine  eyes  o'erflow 
With  tears  that  tell  thy  virtues,  my  sweet  child ; 
For  ever  from  thy  cradle  thou  wert  fill'd 
With  meek  and  gentle  thought ;  thy  step  was  soft 
And  thy  voice  tender ;  and  within  thine  eyes, 
And  on  thy  cloudless  brow,  lay  deeply  glass'd 
The  quiet  and  the  beauty  of  thy  soul. 
As  thou  didst  grow  in  years,  the  love  and  power 
Of  Nature  wax'd  upon  thee  ;  —  thou  wouldst  pore 
On  the  sweet  stillness  of  the  summer  hills. 
Or  the  hush'd  face  of  waters,  as  a  book 
Where  God  had  written  beauty  ;  and  in  turn 
Books  grew  to  thee,  as  Nature's  page  had  grown, 
And  study  and  lone  musing  nursed  thy  youth. 
Yet  wert  thou  ever  woman  in  thy  mood, 
And  soft,  though  serious  ;  nor  in  abstract  thought 


444  EUGENE   ARAM, 

Lost  household  zeal,  or  the  meek  cares  of  love. 

Bless  thee,  my  child.     Thou  look'st  around  for  one 

To  chase  the  paler  rose  from  that  pure  cheek, 

And  the  vague  sadness  from  those  loving  eyes. 

Nay,  turn  not,  Madeline,  for  I  know,  in  truth, 

No  man  to  whom  I  would  so  freely  give 

Thy  hand  as  his  —  no  man  so  full  of  wisdom, 

And  yet  so  gentle  in  his  bearing  of  it ; 

No  man  so  kindly  in  his  thoughts  of  others, 

So  rigid  of  all  virtues  in  himself, 

As  this  same  learned  wonder,  Eugene  Aram. 

Madeline.    In  sooth  his  name  sounds  lovelier  for  thy  praise ; 
Would  he  were  by  to  hear  it !  for  methinks 
His  nature  given  too  much  to  saddening  thought. 
And  words  like  thine  would  cheer  it.     Oft  he  starts 
And  mutters  to  himself,  and  folds  his  arms, 
And  traces  with  keen  eyes  the  empty  air ; 
Then  shakes  his  head,  and  smiles  —  no  happy  smile  ! 

Lambourn.     It  is  the  way  with  students,  for  they  live 
In  an  ideal  world,  and  people  this 
With  shadows  thrown  from  fairy  forms  afar. 
Fear  not !  —  thy  love,  like  some  fair  morn  of  May, 
Shall  chase  the  dreams  in  clothing  earth  with  beauty. 
But  the  noon  wanes,  and  yet  he  does  not  come. 
Neighbors,  has  one  amongst  you  seen  this  day 
The  scholar,  Aram  ? 

Michael.  By  the  hoary  oak 

That  overhangs  the  brook,  I  mark'd  this  morn 
A  bending  figure,  motionless  and  lonely. 
I  near'd  it,  but  it  heard  —  it  saw  me  —  not ; 
It  spoke  —  I  listen'd  —  and  it  said,  "  Ye  leaves 
That  from  the  old  and  changeful  branches  fall 
Upon  the  waters,  and  are  borne  away 
Whither  none  know,  ye  are  men's  worthless  lives ; 
Nor  boots  it  whether  ye  drop  off  by  time, 
Or  the  rude  anger  of  some  violent  wind 
Scatter  ye  ere  your  hour.     Amidst  the  mass 
Of  your  green  life,  who  misses  one  lost  leaf  ?  " 


A  TRAGEDY.  445 

He  said  no  more  ;  then  I  did  come  beside 
The  speaker  :  it  was  Aram. 

Madeline  \_aside'].  Moody  ever! 

And  yet  he  says  he  loves  me  and  is  happy ! 

Michael.     But  he  seem'd  gall'd  and  sore  at  my  approach ; 
And  when  I  told  him  I  was  hither  bound, 
And  ask'd  if  aught  I  should  convey  from  him, 
He  frown'd,  and  coldly  turning  on  his  heel, 
Answer'd  —  that  "  he  should  meet  me."     I  was  pain'd 
To  think  that  I  had  vex'd  so  good  a  man. 

First  Neighbor.     Ay,  he  is  good  as  wise.     All  men  love 
Aram. 

Second    Neighbor.      And   with   what  justice !       My   old 
dame's  complaint 
Had  baffled  all  the  leeches  ;  but  his  art, 
From  a  few  simple  herbs,  distill'd  a  spirit 
Has  made  her  young  again. 

Third  Neighbor.  By  his  advice. 

And  foresight  of  the  seasons,  I  did  till 
My  land,  and  now  my  granaries  scarce  can  hold 
Their  golden  wealth ;  while  those  who  mock'd  his  words 
Can  scarcely  from  hard  earth  and  treacherous  air 
Win  aught  to  keep  the  wolf  from  off  their  door. 

Michael.     And  while  he  stoops  to  what  poor  men  should 
know 
They  say  that  in  the  deep  and  secret  lore 
That  scholars  mostly  prize  he  hath  no  peer. 
Old  men,  who  pale  and  care-begone  have  lived 
A  life  amidst  their  books,  will,  at  his  name. 
Lift  up  their  hands,  and  cry,  "  The  wondrous  man  ! " 

Lambourn.    His  birth-place  must  thank  Fortune  for  the  fame 
That  he  one  day  will  win  it. 

Michael.  Dost  thou  know 

Whence  Aram  came,  ere  to  these  hamlet  scenes 
Ten  summers  since  he  wander'd  ? 

Lambourn.  Michael,  no ! 

'  T  was  from  some  distant  nook  of  our  fair  isle. 
But  he  so  sadly  flies  from  what  hath  chanced 


446  EUGENE   ARAM, 

In  his  more  youthful  life,  and  there  would  seem 
So  much  of  winter  in  those  April  days, 
That  I  have  shunn'd  vain  question  of  the  past. 
Thus  much  I  learn :  he  hath  no  kin  alive  ; 
No  parent  to  exult  in  such  a  son. 

Michael.  Poor  soul !  You  spake  of  sadness.  Know  you  why 
So  good  a  man  is  sorrowful  ? 

Lambourx.  Methinks 

He  hath  been  tried  —  not  lightly  —  by  the  sharp 
And  everlasting  curse  to  learning  doom'd. 
That  which  poor  labor  bears  without  a  sigh, 
But  whose  mere  breath  can  wither  genius  —  Want ! 
Want  —  the  harsh,  hoary  beldame  —  the  obscene 
Witch  that  hath  povv^er  o'er  brave  men's  thews  and  nerves, 
And  lifts  the  mind  from  out  itself. 

Michael.  Why  think  you 

That  he  hath  been  thus  cross'd  ?     His  means  appear 
Enough,  at  least  for  his  subdued  desires. 

Lambourx.    I  '11  tell  thee  wherefore.  Do  but  speak  of  want, 
And  lo  !  he  winces,  and  his  nether  lip 
Quivers  impatient,  and  he  sighs,  and  frowns, 
And  mutters  —  "  Hunger  is  a  fearful  thing ; 
And  it  is  terrible  that  man's  high  soul 
Should  be  made  barren  in  its  purest  aims 
By  the  mere  lack  of  the  earth's  yellow  clay." 
Then  will  he  pause  —  and  pause  —  and  come  at  last 
And  put  some  petty  moneys  in  my  hand. 
And  cry,  ''  Go,  feed  the  wretch ;  he  must  not  starve. 
Or  he  will  sin.     Men's  throats  are  scarcely  safe, 
While  Hunger  prowls  beside  them  !  " 

Michael.  The  kind  man ! 

But  this  comes  only  from  a  gentle  heart, 
Not  from  a  tried  one. 

Lambourn.  Nay,  not  only  so  ; 

For  I  have  heard  him,  as  he  turn'd  away. 
Mutter,  in  stifled  tones,  "No  man  can  tell 
What  Want  is  in  his  brother  man,  unless 
Want's  self  hath  taught  him,  —  as  the  fiend  taught  me  ! " 


A  TRAGEDY.  447 

Michael.     And  hath  he  ne'er  enlarged  upon  these  words, 
Nor  lit  them  into  clearer  knowledge  by 
A  more  pronounced  detail  ? 

Lambourx.  No  ;  nor  have  I 

Much  sought  to  question.     In  my  younger  days 
I  pass'd  much  time  amid  the  scholar  race, 
The  learned  lamps  which  light  the  unpitying  world 
By  their  own  self-consuming.     They  are  proud  — 
A  proud  and  jealous  tribe  —  and  proud  men  loathe 
To  speak  of  former  sufferings  :  most  of  all 
Want's  suffering,  in  the  which  the  bitterest  sting 
Is  in  the  humiliation ;  therefore  I 
Cover  the  past  with  silence.     But  whate'er 
His  origin  or  early  fate,  there  lives 
None  whom  I  hold  more  dearly,  or  to  whom 
My  hopes  so  well  could  trust  my  Madeline's  lot. 

Scene  II.  Tlie  crowd  at  the  hack  of  the  Stage  gives  icay  — 
Aram  sloidy  enters — The  Neighbors  greet  him  with  respect, 
several  appear  to  thank  him  for  various  benefits  or  charities  — 
Me  returns  the  greeting  in  dumb  shoiv,  with  great  appearance 
of  modesty. 

Aram.     Nay,  nay,  good  neighbors,  ye  do  make  me  blush 
To  think  that  to  so  large  a  store  of  praise 
There  goes  so  poor  desert.  —  My  Madeline  !  —  Sweet, 
I  see  thee,  and  all  brightens  ! 

Lambourn.  You  are  late  — 

But  not  less  welcome.     On  my  daughter's  birthday 
You  scarce  should  be  the  last  to  wish  her  joy. 

Aram.     Joy  —  joy  !  —  Is  life  so  poor  and  harsh  a  boon 
That  we  should  hail  each  year  that  wears  its  gloss 
And  glory  into  winter  ?     Shall  we  crown 
With  roses  Time's  bald  temples,  and  rejoice  — 
For  what  ?  —  that  we  are  hastening  to  the  grave  ? 
No,  no  !  —  I  cannot  look  on  thy  young  brow. 
Beautiful  Madeline  !  nor,  upon  the  day 
Which  makes  thee  one  year  nearer  unto  Heaven, 


448  EUGENE   ARAJVI, 

Feel  sad  for  Earth,  whose  very  soul  thou  art ;  — 
Or  art,  at  least,  to  me  !  —  for  wert  thou  not, 
Earth  would  be  dead  and  wither'd  as  the  clay 
Of  her  own  offspring  when  the  breath  departs. 

Lambourx.    I  scarce  had  thought  a  scholar's  dusty  tomes 
Could  teach  his  lips  the  golden  ways  to  woo. 
Howbeit,  in  all  times,  man  never  learns 
To  love,  nor  learns  to  flatter. 

Well,  my  friends, 
Will  ye  within  ?  —  our  simple  fare  invites. 
Aram,  when  thou  hast  made  thy  peace  with  Madeline, 
We  shall  be  glad  to  welcome  thee.  —  [To  Michael].     This  love 
Is  a  most  rigid  faster,  and  would  come 
To  a  quick  ending  in  an  epicure. 

[Exeunt  Lambourn,  tJie  Neighbors,  etc. 


Scene  III. 

Madeline  aiid  Aram. 

Aram.     Alone  with  thee  !  —  Peace  comes  to  earth  again. 
Beloved !  would  our  life  could,  like  a  brook 
Watering  a  desert,  glide  unseen  away, 
Murmuring  our  own  heart's  music,  —  which  is  love, 
And  glassing  only  heaven,  —  which  is  love's  life  ! 
I  am  not  made  to  live  among  mankind ; 
They  stir  dark  memory  from  unwilling  sleep, 
And  —     But  no  matter.     Madeline,  it  is  strange 
That  one  like  thee,  for  whom,  methinks,  fair  Love 
Should  wear  its  bravest  and  most  gallant  garb. 
Should  e'er  have  cast  her  heart's  rich  freight  upon 
A  thing  like  me,  —  not  f  ashion'd  in  the  mould 
Which  wins  a  maiden's  eye,  —  austere  of  life, 
And  grave  and  sad  of  bearing,  —  and  so  long 
Inured  to  solitude,  as  to  have  grown 
A  man  that  hath  the  shape,  but  not  the  soul, 
Of  the  world's  inmates. 


A  TRAGEDY.  449 

Madeline.  'T  is  for  that  I  loved. 

The  world  I  love  not  —  therefore  I  love  thee  ! 
Come,  shall  I  tell  thee,  — '  t  is  an  oft-told  tale, 
Yet  never  wearies,  —  by  what  bright  degrees 
Thy  empire  rose,  till  it  o'erspread  my  soul. 
And  made  my  all  of  being  love  ?     Thou  know'st 
When  first  thou  camest  into  these  lone  retreats. 
My  years  yet  dwelt  in  childhood  ;  but  my  thoughts 
Went  deeper  than  my  playmates'.     Books  I  loved. 
But  not  the  books  that  woo  a  woman's  heart ;  — 
I  loved  not  tales  of  war  and  stern  emprise. 
And  man  let  loose  on  man  —  dark  deeds,  of  which 
The  name  was  glory,  but  the  nature  crime,  — 
Nor  themes  of  vulgar  love  —  of  maidens'  hearts 
Won  by  small  worth,  set  off  by  gaudy  show ;  — 
Those  tales  which  win  the  wilder  hearts,  in  me 
Did  move  some  anger  and  a  world  of  scorn. 
All  that  I  dream'd  of  sympathy  was  given 
Unto  the  lords  of  Mind  —  the  victor  chiefs 
Of  Wisdom  —  or  of  Wisdom's  music  —  Song ; 
And  as  I  read  of  them,  I  dream'd  and  drew 
In  my  soul's  colors,  shapes  my  soul  might  love. 
And,  loving,  worship,  —  they  were  like  to  thee ! 
Thou  camest  unknown  and  lonely,  —  and  around 
Thy  coming,  and  thy  bearing,  and  thy  mood 
Hung  mystery,  —  and  in  guessing  at  its  clew. 
Mystery  grew  interest,  and  the  interest  love  ! 

Aram  \aside\     0  woman  !   how  from  that  which  she  should 
shun. 
Does  the  poor  trifler  draw  what  charms  her  most ! 

Madeline.    Then,  as  Time  won  thee  frequent  to  our  hearth. 
Thou  from  thy  learning's  height  didst  stoop  to  teach  me 
Nature's  more  gentle  secrets,  —  the  sweet  lore 
Of  the  green  herb  and  the  bee-worshipp'd  flower ; 
And  when  the  night  did  o'er  this  nether  earth 
Distil  meek  quiet,  and  the  heart  of  heaven 
With  love  grew  breathless,  thou  wert  wont  to  raise 
My  wild  thoughts  to  the  weird  and  solemn  stars  ; 

29 


450  EUGENE   ARAM, 

Tell  of  eacli  orb  the  courses  and  the  name ; 
And  of  the  winds,  the  clouds,  th'  invisible  air, 
Make  eloquent  discourse  ;  —  until  methought 
No  human  life,  but  some  diviner  spirit 
Alone  could  preach  such  truths  of  things  divine. 
And  so  —  and  so  — 

Aram.  From  heaven  we  turn'd  to  earth, 

And  Thought  did  father  Passion  ?  —  Gentlest  love  ! 
If  thou  couldst  know  how  hard  it  is  for  one 
Who  takes  such  feeble  pleasure  in  this  earth 
To  worship  aiight  earth-born,  thou'dst  learn  how  wild 
The  wonder  of  my  passion  and  thy  power. 
But  ere  three  days  are  past  thou  wilt  be  mine ! 
And  mine  forever  !     Oh,  delicious  thought ! 
How  glorious  were  the  future,  could  I  shut 
The  past  —  the  past  —  from  —    Ha  !  what  stirr'd  ?  didst  hear, 
Madeline,  —  didst  hear  ? 

Madeline.  Hear  what  ?  —  the  very  air 

Lies  quiet  as  an  infant  in  its  sleep. 

Aram  [looki7ig  round].     Methought  I  heard  — 

Madeline.  What,  love  ? 

Aram.  It  was  a  cheat 

Of  these  poor  fools,  the  senses.     Come,  thy  hand  ; 
I  love  to  feel  thy  touch,  thou  art  so  pure  — 
So  soft  —  so  sacred  in  thy  loveliness, 
That  I  feel  safe  with  thee !     Great  God  himself 
Would  shun  to  launch  upon  the  brow  of  guilt 
His  bolt  while  thou  wert  by  ! 

Madeline.  Alas,  alas ! 

Why  dost  thou  talk  of  guilt  ? 

Aram.  Did  I,  sweet  love, 

Did  I  say  guilt  ?  —  it  is  an  ugly  word. 
Why,  sweet,  indeed  —  did  I  say  guilt,  my  Madeline  ? 

Madeline.    In  truth  you  did.   Your  hand  is  dry  —  the  pulse 
Beats  quick  and  fever'd :  you  consume  too  much 
Of  life  in  thought  —  you  over-rack  the  nerves  — 
And  thus  a  shadow  bids  them  quell  and  tremble ; 
But  when  I  queen  it,  Eugene,  o'er  your  home, 


A   TRAGEDY.  451 


I  '11  see  this  fault  amended. 

Aram.  Ay,  thou  shalt.  — 

In  sooth  thou  shalt. 


Scene  IV. 
Enter  Michael. 

Michael.     Friend  Lambourn  sends  his  greeting, 
And  prays  you  to  his  simple  banquet. 

Madeline.  Come ! 

His  raciest  wine  will  in  my  father's  cup 
Seem  dim  till  you  can  pledge  him.     Eugene,  come ! 

Aram.     And  if  I  linger  o'er  the  draught,  sweet  love, 
Thou  'It  know  I  do  but  linger  o'er  the  wish 
For  thee,  which  sheds  its  blessing  on  the  bowl. 


Scene.     Sunset  —  a  Wood-scene  —  a  Cottage  at  a  distance  —  in 
the  foreground  a  Woodman  felling  wood. 

Enter  Aram. 

Wise  men  have  praised  the  peasant's  thoughtless  lot, 
And  learned  pride  hath  envied  humble  toil : 
If  they  were  right,  why,  let  us  burn  our  books, 
And  sit  us  down,  and  play  the  fool  with  Time, 
Mocking  the  prophet  Wisdom's  grave  decrees, 
And  walling  this  trite  present  with  dark  clouds, 
Till  night  becomes  our  nature,  and  the  ray 
Ev'n  of  the  stars  but  meteors  that  withdraw 
The  wandering  spirit  from  the  sluggish  rest 
Which  makes  its  proper  bliss.     I  will  accost 
This  denizen  of  toil,  who,  with  hard  hands, 
Prolongs  from  day  to  day  unthinking  life, 
And  ask  if  he  be  happy.  — Friend,  good  eve. 

Woodman.    '  T  is  the  great  scholar !  —  Worthy  sir,  good  eve. 


452  EUGENE   ARAM. 

Aram.     Thou  seem'st  o'erworn  :    through  this  long  summer 
day 
Hast  thou  been  laboring  in  the  lonely  glen  ? 

Woodman.     Ay,  save  one  hour  at  noon.     'T  is  weary  work ; 
But  men  like  me,  good  sir,  must  not  repine 
At  work  which  feeds  the  craving  mouths  at  home. 

Aram.     Then  thou  art  happy,  friend,  and  with  content 
Thy  life  hath  made  a  compact.     Is  it  so  ? 

Woodman.     Why,  as  to  that,  sir,  I  must  surely  feel 
Some  pangs  when  I  behold  the  ease  with  which 
The  wealthy  live ;  while  I,  through  heat  and  cold, 
Can  scarcely  conquer  Famine. 


THE   END. 


